Legacy
by Lily Winterwood
Summary: In a clockwork world of assigned occupations and predetermined destinies, Forensic Researcher Sherlock Holmes and Army Surgeon John Watson are brought together to determine the truth about the Legacy Project. Steampunk AU.
1. The Calm Before the Storm

****Title:**** Legacy**  
><strong>CharactersPairings:** **Everyone, Sherlock/John and hints of Lestrade/Mycroft**  
><strong>Genre:<strong> **Adventure, General**  
><strong>RatingsWarnings:** **PG-13 bordering on R, rating may change?**  
><strong>Summary:<strong> **In a clockwork world of assigned occupations and predetermined destinies, Forensic Researcher Sherlock Holmes and Army Surgeon John Watson are brought together to determine the truth about the Legacy Project. [summary set to change]**  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> **I do not own the BBC adaptation of Sherlock.

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

Early evening. London was foggy, grey, foreboding. The street-lights flickered to life one by one as little clockwork droids flitted from lamppost to lamppost, lighting the gaslights within. A brougham clattered away down the cobbles, ostensibly carrying a middle-class couple back to their townhouse. Automobiles were for the rich.

It felt like the breath before the plunge – gloom and tension had descended upon Britain. No one felt the chill as keenly as the man who sat in his office on Downing Street. He was, nominally, the Archagent of Occupations, but he really was one blink away from becoming the personification of the British Government.

He was also twenty-three years old.

Mycroft Holmes hailed from an illustrious family. It was only five generations ago when his namesake had held this very office. A portrait of him sat across from the current Mycroft's desk, imposing despite the blatant corpulence. Mycroft sometimes feared he was heading down that path.

_Squish_. The fork stabbed into the cake with an air of murderous finality and Mycroft sighed, rubbing his forehead as he read through the despatches.

A knock at the door. Mycroft muttered a weary "come in", and the door opened to reveal his Protector Assistant, her face hidden behind more papers.

"The finalisations of Stamford's assignments, sir," she said without preamble. Mycroft smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Thank you, Anthea," he replied. It's not her real name. When one was the Protector Assistant to someone as important as Mycroft Holmes, they made up so many aliases that they often forgot their real name.

It didn't matter, though. She's only eighteen, and she's a natural. Her Assignment Agent had chosen well.

Mycroft took the papers and gratefully set down the depressing dispatches. It had been inevitable anyway. "Contact the Permanent Undersecretary. Tell him to recall the Delegates from the Ottoman Empire." He paused, taking in her expression. She was obviously trying to hide her shock. "I knew it would come to war."

Anthea choked back the lump in her throat. Mycroft knew why. Just last year he had approved her brother's assignment as a Soldier. He could see all the arguments, all the pleas she's restraining. _Couldn't they negotiate with the sky corsairs? Couldn't they wait a little longer? Couldn't they_ – no. Whatever she had thought of, Mycroft had already tried.

"I'm very sorry about all this, Anthea," he said. "Deployment begins in three weeks. You have those three weeks off."

"B-but sir, what about you –"

"Say goodbye to your brother for me, won't you?"

Anthea sighed, nodding. "Thank you, sir."

Mycroft watched her go with a heavy sigh of his own, and then he turned his attention back to Stamford's assignments.

* * *

><p>"What do you think you'll be?" Whispers and nudging filled the room. All of the sixteen-year-olds were sitting together in order of birth date; apprehensive eyes were trained on the door marked MIKE STAMFORD. Waiting. They're waiting for their destinies to be called by the Assignment Agent of their district.<p>

John Watson sat with the March birthdays and tried his best not to look nervous.

Just five years ago his older sister Harriet had entered that office and had been assigned as a Worker. The factories always needed more Workers, and a majority of the children were thus assigned to that unless the Agent chose different career paths for them, careers better suited to whatever talent the Agent had noticed over their sixteen years of life. John wondered what he'd be assigned to. What had he done before that could show that he had any sort of talent? He didn't want to be a Worker, like poor Harry. But he wasn't sure if he had anything special enough to avoid that assignment.

"Oh, I hope I get to be a Teacher," Mary Morstan whispered from three seats away. She smiled at John, winking, and John blushed because everyone knew that he had had a crush on her since childhood. Mary turned back, talking to some girl John dimly remembered as Sarah Sawyer. Everyone spoke in hushed tones, too scared to hear their voices bouncing through the room.

Mike Stamford exited his office. He was rotund and cheerful-looking, with a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles sitting on his nose. He carried a list in his hand – their names. He smiled at them, and called the first child. So it began.

The January children were called first. John watched them – recognising some of them – enter the room and come back out with folders, colour-coded by assignments. Many of the children received the blue Worker folder, as predicted. John's pretty sure that some them didn't mind. Being a Worker isn't always as bad as people make it out to be. It's just a constant cycle of overwork, underpay, and under-appreciation. With more emphasis on the first two.

February was next, and then March, and pretty soon John heard his own name being called. His knees knocked together; his legs felt like jelly. He staggered his way to the door, swung it open, and entered.

Mike Stamford's office was cosy, with a cheery fire crackling in the grate – it's the first day of the New Year, after all, and the frost still clung to the windowpanes in spidery webs – and portraits of former Assignment Agents for this particular district hanging on the walls. The man himself, however, sat behind a mahogany desk, holding John's folder. It's green, olive green. John's first instinct was to breathe a sigh of relief over not being assigned as a Worker.

His insides seized up when he saw the gold-embossed lettering on the front. _Army Surgeon_, it said

"T-thank you," he told Mike, taking a seat and opening the folder.

"You will start training tomorrow. It will take up to a year; depending on how quickly you pick up the skills. With the current… state of things… you may even see front-line action in Turkey." Mike smiled. John nodded numbly.

_Army Surgeon_. John has heard the news, of course. Just last night, Britain had finally declared war on the Ottomans. People said it was inevitable. John hoped that the war would be over soon. He also knew that it wouldn't. Not with the history behind these tensions.

"Okay," he said after a moment, and Mike smiled, reaching over to pat his hand.

"Any questions?"

"No, sir…" John clambered out of his seat, smiling flatly. When he left the office, he counted his footsteps out the door.


	2. Five Years Later

**Part I**

_Five Years Later_

The Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers were being shipped back out at six o'clock in the morning on Army Zeppelin no. 221b. That was two hours away from now, though, and John was content to think nothing of it as he drew the warm body of Mary Morstan closer to him in bed. She smiled in her sleep, the pre-dawn light softening the gold curls of her hair.

Had it really been five years since he last saw her at the Assignment? John had been busy training for the first year, and then he'd been assigned to the Fifth as an assistant surgeon. There had hardly been any time for him to breathe before he'd been whisked out to Turkey with the rest of the regiment.

Still, he'd been lucky to survive this long. He'd heard horror stories from the front lines – horror stories about the killings, the infections, the diseases, the heat. He'd been glad that he hadn't been required to report to the front just yet, and he'd breathed a sigh of relief when the regiment was finally given leave to return to London for a month.

Harry had been sick, struggling with alcohol withdrawal. Her life had been shattered by the machines and the whistles of the factory, by the strict schedules and the sweltering heat. John had to see her, had to make sure she was okay. And Mary – oh Mary. Mary had been there, taking a break from her teacherly duties to visit him. She'd been polite and demure as was expected by society, but as soon as the others had left them alone she had thrown her arms around him and kissed him. Desperately.

And now they had to say goodbye again.

"Leave ends in two hours," she murmured, cracking open one eye to look at him with a bittersweet smile and John nodded, forcing away the lump in his throat. He'd fancied her for so long, since they were children – and now he had her, but he couldn't have her for long. There was no use offering his hand in marriage if he wasn't sure that he'd make it back from the war alive.

"What would your mother say?" he mumbled, chuckling. "To this?" He gestured to them, lying together, bodies entwined. "I should probably ask your parents for your hand –"

"This happens a lot more often than you think," Mary replied, giggling. "I'm a Teacher. I've seen it all."

"I'm a Army Surgeon. I've seen it all," he joked, and that caused her to stifle her laughter against his lips. He kissed her back, enjoying the familiar warmth of her body and her lips. His hands roamed down her back, halting at her waist. She shuddered into his touch, humming.

"Still, while I'd love for you to ask for my hand, I don't want to force you into any promises that you may not be able to keep," Mary continued, now resting her head against his shoulder, snuggled firmly against his side. "You're not obligated to return for me."

He hid his smile in her hair. "I'll return because I love you, then."

She laughed, and for a moment all was right with the world.

* * *

><p>Mary escorted him to the train station, to the train that would take him back to the air base. John was in dress uniform, the crisp cloth starchy against his exposed skin. He lugged his trunk with him into an empty compartment and leaned out the window, grasping Mary's hand and looking into her eyes. Searching.<p>

He wondered why he'd said what he said earlier. Yes he did love her, in a way that could only be described as love that blossomed from familiarity, comfort, friendship. Yes, an evolved friendship, that was them. But there was something missing, wasn't there? He couldn't quite lay his finger on it.

But he knew he loved Mary enough to want to make her happy, so he would definitely try his best to return in one shape and sweep her off her feet towards the happily ever after that she deserved. It would be the most ordinary happily ever after, but it would be a happy one, too.

The whistle blew, the train began to move, and Mary ran after the train, grasping at John's fingers for the longest time. She fell back after a while, waving her handkerchief at him as he sped away from her, and he waved back until he couldn't see her anymore.

That was when he leaned back in his seat and started to fiddle with his uniform. It was claret red, with a stiff white collar and a row of burnished golden buttons. The facings were a dark gosling green; his dark breeches were tucked into shining black boots. He would have to change into a more combat-friendly uniform once back on duty, but for now he was somewhat content to stay the way he was.

He fitted the utility sash around him; it carried compartments for emergency medical supplies. He checked the state of his revolver and his sword, and settled back against the seat for the rest of the journey.

* * *

><p>Mycroft lowered the teacup onto the saucer with a clatter. The droid whirred nervously, its tea tray wobbling. Mycroft dismissed it with a wave of his hand and looked sadly down at the beginnings of a paunch covered only by a well-tailored suit.<p>

"I know you're outside, Sherlock," he called.

The door swung open and in stepped Sherlock Holmes. He was dressed in his usual dark coat and blue scarf, with goggles perched in his dark curls and a silken purple vest over his white shirt. He was consulting a fob watch as he entered, only pausing to return it to his pocket.

Mycroft affixed him with a smug grin. "Well now, little brother, what can I do for you?"

Sherlock retorted with his 'you know perfect well what I'm here for' glare. Mycroft chuckled. He did.

"You know I can't do that. The assignment only comes with a Protector Assistant and you have rejected everyone."

"Not my fault they're all a bunch of idiots," Sherlock scoffed, taking out his pocket-telephone and dialling out a textogram. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Look, Sherlock. I know you've wanted to become the Consulting Detective ever since Poirot's retirement. However, you know the dangers of the job. A Consulting Detective without a Protector is absolutely unthinkable."

"I can handle it. Stop coddling me." Sherlock's grey eyes flashed, but Mycroft only smirked in reply.

"I am not 'coddling'; I am merely pointing out what has always been tradition."

"Well, then the traditions are wrong."

"Rubbish, dear brother, the tradition is there for a reason. There is only one Consulting Detective, and without his Protector he will not last very long in his Assignment. Especially not with the current state of things."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I can handle danger," he muttered.

"How would you know? You have only ever seen the inside of various laboratories." Mycroft smiled thinly. "You have a choice, Sherlock. Find a Protector Assistant willing to work with you, or stay on as a Forensic Researcher with the Met."

"You know I can't work with the imbeciles at Scotland Yard," scoffed Sherlock.

"I thought you got along well with Lestrade."

"Yes, well, Lestrade is a lot less annoying than others." Sherlock continued to dial out various textograms, barely looking up from his phone. Mycroft watched him placidly.

"Must you do that?" he asked. Sherlock grunted. "You have issues with Anderson, don't you."

"_How_ exactly did Anderson get assigned as a Forensic Analyst?"

"He's actually more intelligent than what you give him credit for."

"He lowers the IQ of the room every time he opens that stupid mouth."

Mycroft hid a smirk with a mouthful of cake. Sherlock noticed.

"How's the diet?"

At that, the amusement slipped from Mycroft's frame like a discarded garment. "_Fine_," he snapped.

Pleased with himself, Sherlock backed towards the door once more, sending one last textogram before looking up with a smile. "I'll take your criteria into consideration."

"Yes, do." Mycroft snapped his fingers. The clockwork droid zoomed out with a glass of brandy. "And in the meantime, try not to take too many cases. Impinging on someone else's Assignment is frowned upon."

"Since when have I cared?"

Mycroft shrugged. "I know you don't, but it causes havoc with the Agency."

"I'll take a high-profile case just for that."

Mycroft scoffed. Of course he would. "Good day, Sherlock."

The door slammed as Sherlock left.

* * *

><p>The textogram zipped along the line, finding its recipient in a matter of minutes. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade heard the telltale ding and took out his phone, watching the small strip of paper type out the message.<p>

_WRONG.  
>SH<em>

Lestrade groaned and pocketed his phone.

"Well? What do you think?" Sergeant Detective Sally Donovan brushed her bushy brown hair out of her eyes and straightened up from the body, replacing the magnifying glass back into its strap on her striped corset.

"Apparently he didn't drown on accident," Lestrade muttered. Sally rolled her eyes.

"Yes, well, Freak always thinks he's right."

"That's because he usually is right."

Sally rolled her eyes again and stepped away. "What does he think, then?"

"Murder, no doubt." Lestrade knelt down and lowered his magnifying goggles, the same sort that Sherlock had. "But I'm not seeing what he's seeing…"

"Since when have we ever? The suspect has an airtight alibi."

Lestrade groaned as he heard the ding again. He checked his phone. "Sherlock also thinks _that_'s wrong."

"Freak," mumbled Sally.

"You know, he's trying to get out of his Assignment," Lestrade pointed out as he started searching through the gravel for more evidence. "Ever since Poirot's retirement last week…"

"Consulting Detective? Yeah, sounds like him. Flexible work hours, no need to go on raids." Sally knelt down next to him. "I think there are some paint flecks on this gravel…"

"Yes, very perceptive." A third voice cut in, and Sherlock Holmes stood there peering at them through his magnifying goggles. "You should look for a green ladder. If the brother has a green ladder, arrest him."

"The brother's alibi –"

"He didn't need to be there."

"How –" Lestrade frowned.

"Blindingly obvious. The deceased and his wife were unerringly superstitious. He walked around the ladder and into the pond, and the ladder was placed there so he could do that." And with that, he was gone.

Lestrade and Sally looked at each other, sighing.

"He _needs_ that new Assignment," Lestrade muttered.


	3. The Protector and the Apple

**Part II**

The zeppelin glided effortlessly through the placid cerulean sky, through turrets of cloud softly lit by sunlight. The journey had begun without a hitch, and the only disturbance so far had been a mild bout of hail over the Swiss Alps.

"John! Where've you been? I've been on deck all this time and I didn't catch you!" No sooner had John heard that there was a blur and his breath was forcefully knocked out of his lungs in a very enthusiastic hug. Bill Murray, his Orderly, pulled away with a grin and held John at arm's length to appraise him.

"Bill!" John gasped as soon as his breath had returned. "How are you? How was leave?"

"Could have been better. You look well off. How was _your_ break?"

"Wonderful." John thought of Mary's warm eyes and kind smile and felt his cheeks heat up.

Bill waggled his eyebrows at that. "_Ooh_, I see what you mean," he drawled slyly. "There's a girl involved, isn't there?"

"Childhood friend, in fact," John snapped, looking out the window of the canteen. "Shall we go on deck?"

They ascended the stairs to the observation deck of the zeppelin, looking out at the clouds around them. There were planes and other dirigibles, but most of them were far away. The closest one that came by was the well-known luxury airship, the _Gloria Scott_.

"Imagine it, taking a spin on that," Bill remarked, pointing at the _Gloria Scott_ as she passed by in the opposite direction. "Can't even afford a glass of water on that ship."

"Much less a boarding pass," agreed John, as the airship faded into the distance. An aeroplane flew by, cheery red propellers spinning into a blur. The two watched it fade as well, and soon their zeppelin was the only one left in the sky.

A third Soldier joined them. "Have you heard?" he asked by way of greeting, causing John and Bill to stand to attention.

"Heard what?" Bill asked, tilting his head. John smiled.

"Sky corsair raids. They've apparently started up again. One of our zeppelins was shot down last week over Constantinople."

"Casualties?" John asked.

"Dunno, I heard the officers talking about it." The Soldier shrugged. "How was leave? I managed to visit my sister. It was nice, but she was crying when I had to leave."

"Well, yeah, we _are_ going back into combat," Bill pointed out.

"She just kept on fretting about how her boss could have stopped the war, I dunno." The Soldier leaned against the railing, wind tousling his dark brown hair. "Said he was important, so important that she could only give me his Assignment."

"Which is?"

The Soldier leaned in, mischief twinkling in his brown eyes. "The Archagent of Occupations."

John raised both eyebrows. No one ever knew who the Archagent of Occupations was unless they had the right security clearance. Apparently he didn't change his name as often as those around him, if at all. Their society was a clockwork droid, and he was the watchmaker who set every cog in place. Tick-tock, tick-tock.

"You won't believe how much pleading I had to do to get her to say that to me," continued the Soldier. "I mean, I didn't know she was working for _him_, of all people. She was just assigned to be a Protector Assistant, and that could be for any Politician who requested it –"

"Or the Consulting Detective, that job pretty much comes with a Protector Assistant –"

"Although I don't think they'd let any old Politician get a Protector; they are rarely assigned after all –"

"John, did you hear that Poirot retired as Consulting Detective? After his Protector moved to Argentina, I guess –"

John raised both hands. The two other men looked at each other and fell silent.

"I think we might want to go back to the first topic," John muttered. "Sky corsairs. Have they been spotted at all this week?"

* * *

><p>"<em>So cranks the great machine of society, gear against gear and cog against cog. Only one who knows society well can set the pieces into place perfectly, effortlessly. It takes one mistake for the entire machine to grind to a halt. The watchmaker must know every turn of the wheel, every detail. Every imperfection must be smoothed out<em>."

Sherlock looked up from the book he was reading (_A Treatise on Modern Society_) and tossed it aside. Dull. He stretched out on the sofa in his dingy flat on Montague Street, staring up at the ceiling. There were bullet holes in the wall and splatters of machine grease and other things that looked suspiciously like blood all over the ceiling. A lurid masterpiece.

"It doesn't do you well to skulk like this." Mycroft's voice broke the silence. Sherlock's fingers trailed down the side of the sofa and clutched his violin. It was an old one – a family heirloom, almost. Sherlock used it often to drive his brother away.

"Since when do you care?" he muttered.

"You haven't given me any names." Mycroft twirled his umbrella idly. It had a clockwork design and a very nice handle that sported a watch and a barometer done in the same style as the gears on the cloth. It was also designed to shoot ricin pellets, and Mycroft always had a couple of those on hand just in case. Being the Archagent of Occupations was never an easy job.

"I haven't found anyone worthy of the post." Sherlock's lower lip curled in distaste.

Mycroft scoffed. "You haven't been looking in the right places."

"What makes you so sure that I haven't?" Sherlock sneered, but it only made Mycroft look even more amused. Insufferable git. Sherlock made a mental note to leave him something unpleasant the next time he stopped by Downing Street.

"Sherlock, leaving eyeballs on my desk isn't exactly the best way to thank me."

"Why would I need to thank you?"

"I've found you a Protector."

Sherlock frowned. "Oh you have, have you?"

"Yes, yes I have." Mycroft took out a file folder, olive green with golden embossing. "This is his current Assignment. He was just sent back to the Mediterranean campaign. Alexandria and later Turkey."

"Dr. John Watson." Sherlock frowned at the photograph. "Looks dull."

"You'd be surprised."

"You've met him before?"

"Certainly not. I do have my ways."

"Yes, and I assume none of them involve legwork." Sherlock glared daggers at his brother and tossed the file onto the nearby table. "How do you know he's the proper Protector Assistant? Says here that he's an Army Surgeon."

"I don't think you have the right security clearance to know." Mycroft looked amazingly smug. Sherlock resisted the urge to throw an ink pot at his face.

"I'm your brother."

"How out of character, Sherlock, mentioning such facts. I'd hoped you'd forgotten." Mycroft smiled, and turned on his heel. "I will just say that you should look back five generations. You'll see why."

The door slipped shut with an almost silent click, leaving Sherlock to stare at the folder perched on top of all of the other papers weighing down the desk. After a moment, he opened the folder again and began to read.

* * *

><p>A single candle flickered on the table in the empty room. Shadows and light danced across the features of a man and a woman. They sat facing each other; the woman was staring at the man earnestly, trying to decipher his expression. The man, on the other hand, stared at the warm flame with cold eyes.<p>

"I need your help," the woman murmured, ruby red lips glinting in the firelight.

"You know the price." The man drummed his fingers on the table. His face was inscrutable.

"Yes, yes I do." She looked down at her lacy fingerless gloves. "When will I pay it?"

"Whenever I need you to." The man carelessly took an apple out of the pocket of his waistcoat and a small penknife. He started to carve letters into it. "A small reminder." He smirked, setting the apple down – it now bore the message "IOU" on it. The woman looked down, her nervousness only betrayed by a slight tremor in her hands. The man smirked.

"Absolutely," she murmured, not looking into his eyes as she reached up to adjust the feathers and gears adorning her hair. "Everything will be perfect."


	4. The Lieutenant

**Part III**

_Thump_, _thump_ rang the sound of boots on tile as Sherlock entered the mortuary. A young woman with auburn hair curled into ringlets looked up from her clipboard, beaming nervously at him.

"H-hey, Sherlock," she stammered, blushing.

"Changed your hair, Molly?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Good, good, your forehead looked too big with the middle-part style."

Molly Hooper took a step back, blushing even harder. Sherlock took no notice.

"And where is the body?"

"I'll bring him out…" Molly waved in the general direction of the morgue. "Just came in. Sixty-seven, natural causes. He used to work here. I knew him; he was nice."

Sherlock straightened up, grinning from ear to ear. "Good. Wheel him out. We'll start with the riding crop."

Molly wasn't sure how whipping a corpse was conducive to Forensic Research, but she wasn't about to protest against that smile. She did as she was told, excusing herself as soon as the body was on the table.

She ran down to the nearest toilet, fumbling through her lab coat for her lipstick as she went. Charging through the door and leaning heavily against the counter, Molly reached over and flicked on the lights. The bare bulbs sprung into life, energy crackling in the air. Molly was always slightly scared that someday one of those bulbs would shatter right in her face.

She faced the mirror and started applying the lipstick, puckering her lips once she was done. Sherlock always noticed things about her, but that never meant he noticed her. Her, the lonely Pathologist with a crush. She sighed and adjusted the brass frogs holding her lab coat closed. Underneath she wore grey short dungarees over a white blouse. Nothing that would make her noticeable, as usual.

She wished that she had bought the adorable clockwork hair piece she had spotted in the window of her favourite boutique last weekend, but there was no use crying over spilled axle grease. Sighing, Molly straightened up and flashed her most flirtatious smile at her reflection before leaving the room.

Sherlock was still whacking at the corpse with his riding crop when she returned, and as she entered she couldn't help but wince for the poor body. Even if it was nothing more than organic matter at this point, it also used to be an acquaintance of hers. A fond acquaintance. Molly sighed.

"So! Bad day, was it?" she asked, trying her best to keep her voice chipper.

"I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man's alibi depends on it. Send me a textogram." Sherlock took out a notebook from the inside pocket of his coat – exactly how many pockets that coat had, Molly wasn't sure – and started writing in it.

Molly's breath hitched in her throat as she willed herself to take the next step. "Listen, I was wondering –"

"Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing it before." He tilted his head to the side, scrutinising her with those strange grey – or blue, or green – eyes that never failed to take her breath away.

"I… I uh… refreshed it. A bit." She chuckled nervously.

"Ah. Sorry, you were saying?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee."

He beamed at her. "Black, two sugars. I'll be upstairs." Coat billowing out, he swept out of the mortuary leaving her to stare in his wake.

"Okay…" And that was that. At that moment, Molly had never felt more like a mouse.

* * *

><p>John strode into the hangar towards the docked zeppelin. It had been a week since his return, and already he found that slipping back into military life was like slipping back into a well-worn glove.<p>

The zeppelin, big enough to be a mobile home for an entire regiment yet small enough to manoeuvre the skies effectively, sat before him as silent as the grave. Its framework was lightweight steel; the silky cloth of the balloon was reinforced by more steel. The reinforced steel-and-iron gondola was largely fused with the balloon, except for the observation deck which ran along the middle of the gondola. The propellers and rudders were proportionately large.

John walked to the port side, where the doors of the gondola were open and the gangplank was down. He boarded, opening his satchel to take out his laptop. It appeared to be a highly lacquered box with small spindly legs, but once it was open and the key was turned, it whirred into life with a comforting hum.

_Requesting password_. John typed it in, slowly and painstakingly. Once online, he pulled up the document with the checklist he needed – he had to inspect sickbay today, make sure it was well-equipped for their move from Alexandria to Turkey. Marching orders had come in that morning. They were to leave at the end of the week.

"Looking for something, sir?" a familiar voice called. It was the Soldier from a week ago, the one whose sister worked for the Archagent. He quickly stood to attention and saluted John, who returned the gesture with a smile.

"Didn't quite catch your name the last time we talked." John leaned back against the crate, laptop perched beside him.

"I'm supposed to be taking those crates down into the cargo hull, sir," the Soldier replied.

"Name first."

"Lieutenant Arthur Charpentier, sir."

"Captain John Watson." John stood up. "I'll help you carry the crates." He turned off his laptop and replaced it in his satchel, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt once finished. The two of them started heaving crates down the wide hallway, past the doors leading into the canteen and the stairs leading to the observation deck and the pilots' quarters. They had a small regiment, but that didn't mean they weren't self-sufficient. Even the Chefs had been trained with the Soldiers.

After a moment, John was feeling rather stilted with the military pomp and circumstance that prevented Arthur Charpentier from speaking to him (a rather strange thing considering his loquaciousness last week). "You can talk, you know," he said as they passed the bunks.

"Thank you, sir."

"My name's not sir, it's John." Arthur laughed at that.

"All right then." Eventually they reached the stairs leading down to the cargo hull and the boiler and engine rooms. "How have you been, then?"

"Could be worse." John shrugged. The unspoken 'could be dead' passed between them.

"Yeah, I agree." Arthur sighed. "I've been trying to send textograms to my sister. She's always on her phone, so…" he shrugged. "She never replies."

"Why not?"

"Government stuff I bet." Arthur bit his lower lip. They unloaded the crate and started heading back. "I miss her, though."

"Is it just you hauling crates around here? That's rather odd."

"Mm, most are on break right now."

"Ah."

They hauled several more crates into the cargo bay before Arthur slumped and declared himself on break as well. By now, though, some of the other Soldiers had returned and were picking up the slack. John bid goodbye to Arthur, who was going to head for the mess for lunch. He walked back down to sickbay, pulling up the checklist on his laptop.

That was the moment when the sirens sounded. Groaning, John slammed his gadgetry back into his satchel before rushing out of the zeppelin and out of the hangar. Once in the open, though, he realised what the disturbance was.

A giant flaming skeleton was heading straight for the base. It was the wreckage of a zeppelin, an unidentified one of theirs. Flame retardant was produced at every corner; people grabbed gas masks as the smoke permeated the air around them and as the dirigible got closer and closer. With an almighty crash, the flaming behemoth landed on the field just before the hangars, setting the sparse desert grass aflame.

Moments later, the fires were doused. John donned a gas mask with the rest of them and headed into the smouldering wreckage in search of survivors.

* * *

><p>"Well?" Lestrade's voice broke through Sherlock's contemplative state. The dark-haired detective scowled at him from his desk, his hands pressed together as if in prayer.<p>

"Well, shut up," he retorted. "I'm thinking."

"You've been thinking for the past ten minutes."

Sherlock wordlessly held up his textogram from Molly. Lestrade crossed over to the desk, taking the message with a quirked eyebrow.

"Any news from your brother?" the Detective Inspector asked as he read the message.

"Why would I tell you?" Sherlock crossed his arms and propped his feet on his desk, firmly out of his thinking pose. He looked like the quintessential private eye; Lestrade half-expected him to pull on a deerstalker. "As you can tell, the types of bruises that were formed match those on the body of Mr. McCarthy. Therefore we cannot rule out post-mortem beating."

"So?"

"So Mr. Turner's alibi is not as airtight as he thinks it is."

"You're saying we need to further question him?"

"I'm saying that he's the killer." Sherlock tilted his head to the side and gave Lestrade an once-over with a flick of his eyes. "New trousers?"

"Yeah." Lestrade shifted slightly.

"Stripes. Interesting. Did my brother buy them for you?"

Lestrade turned a strange shade of crimson. Sherlock's mouth twitched in amusement. Lestrade's phone chose that moment to ring as well, causing him to duck out of the office mouthing apologies at Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Lestrade re-entered the room with a sigh. "Another case," he muttered.

"Really." Sherlock had picked up the olive green folder and was flipping through its contents idly.

"Apparently a suicide. I'll bring you a cold case to solve while I'm gone."

"Why can't I go?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes with the air of a man trying to remind his son why stealing his classmate's toy robot was a bad idea. "Forensic Researchers don't have the clearance."

"And Forensic Analysts can? Anderson will jump to all of the wrong conclusions," scoffed Sherlock. "He'll contaminate the evidence."

"Funny enough, he says the same thing about you." Lestrade was at the door now. "I promise to bring you something to keep your mind busy, Sherlock. Now behave."

The door slammed. Sherlock scoffed again, before returning to the sanctuary of John Watson's file.


	5. Towards Turkey

**Part IV**

_Excerpt from the journal of Lt. Arthur Charpentier_

We are being shipped to Turkey this morning. It's been a week since I last updated this, and a lot has happened during that time – more than previous weeks, that is.

I've been talking to one of the Army Surgeons, Captain John Watson. He misses home just as much as I do, even if we've both slipped back into military life like nothing's ever taken us out of it. I guess training does that. It's like seeing a duck – a real, live duck, not one of those silly mechanical ones in Regent's Park – take to water. There's a certain ease about it that is almost disconcerting.

John has a girl back home waiting for him. He says that she really isn't waiting, but the look on his face clearly says otherwise. He wants her to wait; he's trying his best to get through the rest of the war in one piece so that he can return to her. Yesterday he showed me her picture. She is beautiful.

No texts from Sissy. I worry about her constantly. She did call me on Wednesday; she told me that I should stop contacting her from a personal phone because it can be traced. I haven't told her where I am, but I want to talk to her very much. What use is that if she can't reply? She promised to call next week. I hope she doesn't forget.

Poor Sissy has forgotten her own name. Every day she is someone else, and I don't like it. I don't like her Assignment; what if she forgets herself completely? She puts herself in danger every day as a Protector Assistant and I wish she didn't have to do that – I want her to be safe.

What if I forget myself completely? The clockwork efficiency of the army machine takes its toll eventually. I've seen veterans. Army, air force, navy – it doesn't matter. In the end, the soldier loses himself. He is only a gear in the apparatus of war.

_Later_

We are soaring over the Mediterranean. John looks nervous. I asked him if there was anything wrong, and he shook his head. Hiding something.

Bill Murray, his Orderly, says he's having a homesick spell. I don't think that's the case. John is always eager to talk about home, but he only gets reticent whenever someone brings up the flaming zeppelin.

Yes, the flaming zeppelin. This time last week there was an attack on Army Zeppelin 413a. No survivors. The zeppelin managed to escape the corsairs with the balloon on fire – impressive, because as soon as that balloon goes up everything is lost. Hydrogen gas. Highly flammable. The captain had been burnt to a crisp at the wheel. John must be disheartened by the attack, that's all. He was on the rescue team.

More news of attacks. Many of them fail – that is, we're usually able to escape – but still they worry me.

* * *

><p>Sherlock leaned back in his seat and looked through the photos. Across from him, Lestrade watched him, one eyebrow cocked in a challenging way. Sherlock scowled at him.<p>

"The butler did it," he snapped.

Lestrade's other eyebrow arched up.

"Well, not really the butler – moreso the maid than the butler, but either way the two were conspiring to steal the treasure and at the last possible moment the maid locked the butler in the cellar."

"How could you tell?"

"This photo, of the paper in Mr. Musgrave's study. The last one that the butler had read before his dismissal. The message is clear – there is a dialogue on the paper that suggests a certain ritual. Given this and the map that you've so kindly provided for me, it only takes a couple of calculations to figure out that the ritual refers to the cellar, the treasure in the cellar. The butler was trying to take it, convinces the maid to help him, but there must have been something between them that would cause her to desert him. Her hysterical testimony as recorded on the phonograph suggests that at one point she did love him, but he obviously has not been gentle. Spurned affections, perhaps. Love is a dangerous motivator. Love gone sour can easily turn to murder."

"I see." Lestrade took back the papers. "Now, to the real case…"

"How was that case even a cold one? Sometimes I doubt your competence, Lestrade."

"You're desperate for that post, aren't you?" Lestrade handed him the second set of photos.

"The Consulting Detective? Mm, yes." Sherlock's eyes did not leave the paper. Lestrade leaned against the wall. Sherlock perched his feet onto his desk and scowled at the images. "Remind your photographer to take his withdrawal medication."

"What?" Lestrade shook his head. "You can't be serious."

"The pictures are blurred, taken by a shaking hand. The photographer who usually goes with you has a nasty drug habit and is currently going through withdrawal. I've seen him in the halls."

"More like you know what it feels like."

Sherlock scowled at him. "Shut _up_."

Lestrade smirked, but the smirk slid off his face as he handed the Forensic Researcher the photographs of Sir Jeffrey Patterson.

* * *

><p>Below the zeppelin, the sea streaked past in jewelled ripples. On the observation deck, John let the wind roam through his cropped hair and breathed a deep sigh of relief.<p>

They were going somewhere, the regiment. Into the action. He was terrified, but thrilled. Danger sang her siren song to him, and he answered. He always answered.

Many people wondered why Stamford had assigned him to Army Surgeon. But then again, everyone speculated on everyone else's assignments. Many of them were rather obvious – Mary's was obvious. She had gotten what she wanted because it fit her nature perfectly. Nurturing, obvious Mary.

John reckoned in hindsight he should have been just as obvious, but people tended to overlook his obviousness. A dangerous man camouflaged with a ready smile and a warm jumper – that was the best way to describe him. Stamford certainly saw that one afternoon when John had been fourteen and in science class.

Science class was extremely important in their society, on the same level as mechanics and maths. John had excelled in the life sciences, especially when it concerned medicine and anatomy. That particular afternoon they had been dissecting cats – real cats, not the mechanical ones with the mechanical organs designed for student dissections – and John was the only one at the table who truly relished the project. Stamford had been visiting; John could have felt the man boring a hole into the back of his head with his intent eyes.

And months later, when Stamford was in science class again and a girl had spilt acid all over her arms, John had been the first one to get to her, to attempt to tend to her. That he was putting himself at risk for acid burn only dimly registered in the back of his head. The girl had to get braces to cover her arms – they were of burnished brass, with engravings of wings on them – and John knew that she would probably never take them off in public for the rest of her life – but at least he had prevented her from needing an entire arm replacement. Mechanised arms at that time were still a relatively new development.

John frowned at the direction of his meandering thoughts. He had not thought about the reasons behind his assignment for five years already – training tended to push introspection out of his head very efficiently. He watched the horizon for a glimpse of land, but all he could see was the rest of the zeppelin, the sea, and the unending blue sky.

"Nice view, isn't it, sir?" Arthur Charpentier's voice came out of nowhere.

"Nice, yes," John mumbled distractedly.

"Sorry if I'm intruding."

"You aren't, at all." John forced himself to smile. Arthur leaned against the railing next to him.

"You just looked really lonely, sorry. I thought I'd… keep you company if you wanted it."

"It's fine. I'm just… nervous." John grinned at him. "Going into action."

"Ain't it exciting?" Arthur laughed. "I'll have so much more to report. Sissy's calling me in a week."

"Your sister?"

"Yeah."

"You look sad," John noted. "Trouble at home? I won't pry."

"No, it's just… I miss her, and I hope I last the week so I can call her, y'know?"

That was the most dangerous thing about the military. You never knew when your time was up, when the hourglass would run out of sand, when the cogs that turned the clock of your fate would screech to a sudden halt. Most people back home were expected to live up to about their sixties. Here in the army – well, just a week ago John had seen the entire crew of a zeppelin turn to ash before his eyes, didn't he? An entire crew of young men would never see the lights of home again. It disheartened him.

"Corsairs."

"What?" John turned to look at the man, slightly alarmed.

"I'm worried about them, too."

John nodded, smiling thinly. "I saw the zeppelin crash."

"A lot of people did," Arthur pointed out. "Bill thinks you're homesick."

"Bullshit," John snorted. "Bill tells everyone that even though he knows I'm just worried about Turkey. Nothing else."

"You think?" Arthur looked off, behind him, his brows furrowed. John followed his gaze.

That little speck at the edge of the horizon shouldn't have sent frissions of fear rippling down his spine. But it did.

"Do you have any observation goggles?" he asked Arthur, trying his best not to make his voice sound strained.

"Yeah, in my kit…" Arthur struggled with his bag and handed the goggles to John, who seized them and strapped them on his head, peering through them desperately.

A ship was heading towards them. It didn't look friendly at all, considering the colour of its sails. Black.

"Corsair ship, but the sails are black, not red," he mumbled, feeling the curling in his stomach worsen until it felt like there were snakes in there, struggling to surface. His hand grew clammy on the railing.

"Afghan, not Turkish." Arthur's voice was strained. John took off the goggles and handed them back to the Soldier, his heartbeat thumping.

At that moment, the alarm sounded. A wailing of sirens pierced the air as John clutched his ringing ears and scrambled to get below deck.

Looks like the lookouts noticed the corsairs, too.


	6. The Corsairs Attack

**Part V**

The zeppelin picked up speed, obviously hoping to get to land before the corsairs attacked. Everyone knew that the Afghan Sky Corsairs were somehow even worse than their Turkish brethren.

Luck was not on their side, though, and as John watched the corsair ship grow closer and closer despite their best efforts to escape, his heart sank to his boots.

The guns were manned and ready to fire on command, and soon enough the world was shaking as they roared to life. In sickbay, John and the other doctors started preparing.

"Watson! You're needed on deck," someone yelled, and John rushed up onto the deck with his heart pounding loudly in his chest. He drew his revolver, warily looking around him for any attackers as he neared the sounds of conflict. When he emerged on the main deck, however, he could see soldiers rushing to and fro, throwing weapons and supplies at each other and dragging in the injured. John quickly ran towards the incoming patients, ears ringing from gunshots everywhere. Muskets, revolvers, cannons – everything seemed to be firing all at once, above the clanging of steel on steel and the hoarse cries of anger and pain from both sides.

For a moment, John paused to admire the efficiency of their regiment. A perfect fighting machine, straight from the textbook. Each soldier only a gear, a part of the whole. No room for self when the fortunes of your comrades depended on your living, fighting, dying. John shot a turbaned corsair trying to get through the doorway and marvelled at how his hands didn't tremble.

"John! We need to get these guys down to sickbay!" someone yelled, jolting him from his reverie. John nodded, pausing to shoot another corsair as he helped the fallen men stagger down to medical care.

He was up on deck moments later once more, the siren song of danger singing to him, luring him to her breast. John unsheathed his sword and dove into the fray, slicing and stabbing, blocking and parrying as he searched about for fallen comrades. He found one lying next to a crate on the observation deck, and when he got closer his heart plummeted.

It was Arthur.

* * *

><p>Anthea rushed away from the telegraph room, face pale. In her white-knuckled hands she clutched the telegram.<p>

FIFTH NORTHUMBERLAND ATTACKED BY CORSAIRS STOP REQUEST REINFORCEMENTS STOP

She knew she shouldn't be intercepting cables, but she had also paid the Messenger overseeing the military lines to send her all of the news of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, especially concerning her brother. With Mycroft insisting only on sporadic calls, she had to keep up with her brother's news whenever she did talk to him. Time was money.

Shock settled around her like a blanket as she re-entered her boss's office. He looked up from his papers, both eyebrows raised as he appraised her.

"I can't do anything about it, my dear," he said calmly. "This is a concern for the military, not the government. I may have called them into war, but from there all tactical choices lie with the generals." He paused and smirked. "You wouldn't trust me at the tactical table, anyway."

"You can do something for me," Anthea murmured, not liking how hoarse her voice sounded. Mycroft looked at his cup of tea, now quickly losing heat.

"Contacting your brother will be dangerous."

"I need to know."

"Very well." Mycroft steeped his fingers together. "If you say so."

Anthea nodded and left the office, dialling her brother's number as she went.

"Brother?" she asked as the phone rang and rang. "Brother, please pick up. Please!"

* * *

><p>John heard a ringing from one of Arthur's pockets as he safely ensconced them behind several larger crates. He reached in and pulled out a mobile telephone. Unhooking the receiver, John plugged the earpiece into his ear and held the mouthpiece to his trembling lips. "H-hello?" he asked quietly.<p>

"You're not brother," the woman's voice on the other end accused.

"No, I'm his friend," John replied, looking around at his shelter and hoping that she couldn't hear the sounds of the battle.

"What's wrong with him? Why can't he pick up?" The woman sounded distressed, near hysterics. Almost shocked.

"You're his sister, aren't you?"

"So what if I am? Tell me what's wrong with him!"

"He was shot. Don't worry, we'll get him through," John reassured as he singlehandedly attempted to staunch the gunshot wound in Arthur's stomach with his fingers. "I'll talk to you later, if you don't mind." With that, he promptly hung up and replaced the phone. Reaching into his kit, he pulled out a roll of bandages and started to wrap the material around his fallen friend.

Once the wound had been temporarily dressed, John pulled Arthur into a half-sitting position, looking around him to see if the coast was clear. The battle had lulled for the moment, so he reckoned that he could at least drag the Soldier down to the main deck. The main deck was silent as the grave, most doors sealed and guarded against enemy intrusion. The sickbay, however, was starting to become chaotic. Triage was being set up.

John laid Arthur onto an available cot, patted his head, and dashed away to get his sword. He'd left it behind the crates, and he didn't want it to fall into enemy hands. The sword bore delicate clockwork engravings along the hilt, and an extremely valuable ruby set in the pommel. It had been a family heirloom, passed down from his great-great-great grandfather. Family tales had made him out to be one of the bravest Soldiers there ever was, and a greater Protector Assistant after his invalidation from the field of combat. John bore his name.

Exactly how many corsairs were attacking? John took the opportunity to get a good look at the enemy ship while he was on the observation deck and still relatively safe. The black-sailed corsair ship had sustained damage from the gunfire, almost as much as the zeppelin. However, it wasn't down for the count and there were still people on board who were liable to attack them. John could make out at least three dead corsairs and several wounded ones. He couldn't help but feel that sick twist of admiration at the persistence of the enemy; they had the mindset of a Japanese Kamikaze Flyer and the fury and hatred of a wildfire.

"They've brought friends!" someone shouted, and John had to clutch the railing to steady his nerves as he watched the red sails of a Turkish corsair ship sidle out of the clouds. Where were _their_reinforcements? The red-sailed corsair ship drew closer, almost circling like a shark about to converge on a bloodied carcass. They'd already lost twenty men, and several more were streaming down to sickbay.

"John!" Bill's voice rang out of nowhere. "John, hurry up!"

John whirled around, shot a corsair about to attack his Orderly, and hollered, "Who's doing triage?" Last time he checked, Bill had been overseeing the process of determining who needed immediate medical help, who could be delayed, and who were lost. He hadn't stayed behind to find out Arthur's fate, and he hoped with all of his might that the lad could pull through somehow.

"Trevelyan's taking care of it," Bill panted as he shot an oncoming corsair. John grabbed his sword – he'd been hastily cleaning it on his breeches – and sheathed it. "John, look –"

The shot wasn't really heard as much as felt. John felt searing pain rip through his shoulder. Another bullet grazed his leg. He clutched at the offending shoulder, his face contorting with pain as he felt his nerves scream in protest. Luckily for him, the bullet didn't seem to have pierced anything more serious than muscle. Unluckily for him, the wound appeared to be messy. Very messy.

"John!" Bill screamed again as John felt his knees buckle under the pain. Through the haze of agony, John could feel his Orderly tugging – no, _dragging_him down the gruelling path to sickbay. The pain overwhelmed him moments later, and he knew no more.

* * *

><p>"James Phillimore," Lestrade announced. Sherlock raised an eyebrow coolly.<p>

"What about him?" he asked.

"Found dead this morning outside a Recreational Centre."

"So?"

"It was the one that closed a few years ago after the Manager left for France. No one goes there anymore, yet there he was, dead. Suicide."

"If it was suicide, why bother telling me?" Sherlock dialled a textogram, mock-yawning as he did so.

_Orange pips means warning. Look out for Anarchists.  
>SH<em>

"His suicide was similar to that of Sir Jeffrey Patterson from a couple of days ago," the Detective Inspector explained. "Same poison, similar location, no history of suicidal tendencies." He handed Sherlock the crime scene photographs.

"Different photographer, I see. Did you tell the other one to go to rehab?"

"You shouldn't be talking," Lestrade muttered. "We can't call these suicides linked, however. So far they can only be treated as coincidences."

"I know that," Sherlock snapped, ignoring Lestrade's first comment. "If a third suicide appears to be the same, I'll take the case."

"It's our case."

"Why are you briefing me, then?"

"We may need your help eventually, but it's still our case."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Lestrade turned to leave. As the Detective Inspector reached the door, Sherlock called, "give my brother my coldest regards tonight, won't you?"

Lestrade groaned. He could never keep anything secret from any of the Holmeses, could he?

"How do I know? Your shoes. Nicely and very recently shined, and done in the same style as Mycroft's favourite brand. That is, assuming he didn't buy those for you as well, since they're obviously out of the price range for an ordinary Detective Inspector." Sherlock paused, and Lestrade could sense he was grinning like one of those mechanical sharks on display at the local museum. "Sometimes I wonder why you bother."

"Sometimes I wonder why I bother with you," Lestrade retorted as he left, adjusting the goggles on his head as he did so.

As soon as he was out of Sherlock's earshot, Lestrade dialled Mycroft's number. "Mycroft Holmes," the bored drawl resounded on the first ring.

"You need to give him that Assignment," Lestrade hissed.

"Ah, Greg. Just the man I was hoping to reach." Mycroft sounded as if Lestrade hadn't demanded he get his obnoxious younger brother out from under his feet.

"Did you hear me, Mycroft? Sherlock has to become the Consulting Detective. He's been doing nothing but solving our cases. He's _impinging on my Assignment_."

"He hasn't made a decision about his Protector Assistant yet," Mycroft sounded undeniably bored. "And I'm afraid tradition cannot be broken."

"Sherlock's not a traditional bloke," Lestrade pointed out.

"A pity all the same." There was a whisper of static, as if the Archagent was yawning. "Tell me about it later; I have some gruesome cables to read."

"See you later, then."

"Sixteen sharp, the Savoy," Mycroft insisted, his voice a mixture of weary and smug. "I expect a good report."

* * *

><p>The woman drew a silver blade across his skin, ice-cold metal caressing warm flesh. He shivered in the coldness of the darkened room and wondered how he got into this predicament.<p>

"What do you have to show me, Westy?" she crooned into his ear, the scarlet feathers of her mask tickling his cheek.

"I… nothing…" he mumbled.

"What about those plans? The Bruce-Partington files?" She smirked against the shell of his ear. "The _project_?

He groaned, partly in disappointment and partly because she had lightly tapped the knife against one of his nipples.

"They're in my key…" he breathed, straining against the bonds. His eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to block out the image of her – the woman, clad in nothing but a crimson mask. "My… my memory key…"

"Encrypted?" she purred, straightening up and tracing a sharp red nail down the planes of his torso. He moaned despite himself.

"O-o-obviously," he stammered.

"Mm… good boy." She grinned, like a feral cat, and tapped the edge of her blood red mask. "What a good boy you are, Westy darling."


	7. Dinner at the Savoy

**Part VI**

It was evening in London when the casualty list arrived on Mycroft's desk. He read through the list, face paling. After a moment, he set down the list, grabbed his stovepipe hat, and left the office.

Mycroft rarely left the office, but he had dismissed his Protector Assistant for the day and she was likely to be at home with her mother and father. As he headed for the door, he paused to straighten his collar and adjust his cravat in the hall mirror. Sweeping his travelling coat from the hatstand near the door, Mycroft pinned it over his shoulders and left the building, umbrella in tow.

He hailed a hansom and directed the Driver to Torquay Terrace, where the Charpentier's Boarding Establishment was situated. Once there, he paid the Driver to stay for a moment longer as he splashed through the puddles from the recent rain and knocked at the door.

Anthea opened the door. Mycroft took one look at her and took off his hat, bowing his head. She didn't need another prompt before her eyes welled with tears and he was forced to say his condolences and awkwardly pat her on the back. Mr. and Mrs. Charpentier came running into the hall to see the scene; their faces immediately became ashen at the sight of their daughter sobbing in the arms of the Archagent of Occupations.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Mycroft cleared his throat. "My condolences, Mr. Charpentier," he said after a moment. He remembered seeing his father assign Mr. Charpentier the role of Innkeeper as a boy, and he could deduce that Mrs. Chapentier had been assigned as a Chef judging by the apron and the flour and meat fillings smeared all over her hands. "Your son…"

He didn't need to say any more. Mrs. Charpentier had realised the reason behind the visit, and buried her face in her husband's shoulders.

"He was a very brave Soldier, so I've heard," Mycroft said calmly, still patting his Protector Assistant's shoulders. "And the doctors say that he fought until the bitter end, coping with his wound."

"Where?" Mr. Charpentier asked in a strangled voice.

"Stomach."

"Yes, but… when did he get shot?"

"Corsair attack on the army zeppelin," Anthea mumbled.

"The rest of the regiment managed to disengage the enemy despite being outnumbered," Mycroft replied calmly. "The majority of them are in Turkey now. The wounded were sent back to Alexandria to be treated – your son was amongst them before his untimely death."

Mr. Charpentier nodded as he took Anthea's wrists and guided her to his side. "I thank you for bringing us the news. Would you like to stay for dinner?"

"I'm afraid I cannot," Mycroft replied calmly. "I have a meeting with a friend at the Savoy."

"Ah, very well." Mr. Charpentier tried to smile, but Mycroft could tell that the smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Anthea, take tomorrow off," Mycroft called over his shoulder as he turned to leave. As he strode down the path towards his cab, he could hear Anthea's parents asking her why she had chosen that name.

"Where to now, sir?" the Driver asked as Mycroft clambered back into the carriage. The Archagent smiled.

"The Savoy," he said calmly, consulting his watch in the dim glow of the streetlamps.

* * *

><p>The low brown haze of burning opium stung at Lestrade's eyes as he meandered through the den, refusing a pipe from a passing attendant and wrinkling his nose as he passed by hunched shoulders and drooping heads. "Where are you… where are you?" he mumbled under his breath. At this rate, he was going to be late for dinner with Mycroft. Damn his little brother and his need for chemical stimulation!<p>

Lestrade passed by a young man with ginger curls and a beard before pausing and doing a double take. Peering through the stinging smoke, he scrutinised the youth before tapping his shoulder.

"Sherlock, you imbecile. Get up, we're leaving."

The young man looked up at him sullenly and sleepily. "What time is it, Lestrade?" he mumbled.

"Fifteen thirty, and if you don't hurry up I'll be late for my meeting with Mycroft."

"'S not a meeting," snorted Sherlock as he reached up and pulled off his wig and false beard. "'S a _date_."

"Shut up."

"Did Mycroft send you after me? My handler, and whatnot? At this rate you could be my Protector Assistant."

"Why would I do that? I wouldn't want to deal with you for twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Work hours is quite enough for me," Lestrade snapped. "Up you get."

"Mycroft put you up to this, didn't he." Almost immediately Sherlock's blue-green-grey eyes had lost their opium-deadened haze and were alert, piercing.

"So what if he did? We better get going." Lestrade hauled the younger Holmes to his feet and all but manhandled him out of the room. "Of all places for you to be, Sherlock!"

"Stupid surveillance droids," Sherlock muttered as Lestrade shoved him into the cab and called for the Driver to take them to Montague Street.

"Stupid yourself." Lestrade sent him a level glare, his features thrown into sharp contrast by the passing streetlights. "I'm tired of picking up after you, and you know I only do it as a favour to your brother."

"You don't need to be my handler," snapped Sherlock. "I don't need to be coddled."

"And you don't need to ruin your chances of being effective at your Assignment. You know you could be Deassigned."

Sherlock snorted, but said nothing. The cab pulled up to his dingy flat on Montague Street. The Forensic Researcher clambered out and stormed up to the door. Lestrade watched him leave.

"If it's of any condolence, I'm sure you're a shoe-in for the Consulting Detective post. You just need to stop gallivanting off to illicit opium dens and soliciting cocaine dealers when you think our backs are turned."

Sherlock said nothing, only swept through the door and slammed it shut. Lestrade clattered away to the Savoy. Mycroft was watching the Waiter pour two glasses of vintage red wine when he arrived on the scene, looking slightly worse for wear.

"He was there, then?" the elder Holmes asked calmly. Lestrade grunted in affirmation and took a seat, taking off his coat and draping it over the back of his chair as he did so.

"High as one of those Oriental paper kites," the Detective Inspector confirmed grimly.

Mycroft shook his head. "I have selected a Protector Assistant for him already. I don't see why he bothers skulking about it."

"I thought that there was at least some choice in the matter?" Lestrade asked, taking a sip of the wine. The sweetly-sour taste trickled down his throat. "Unlike so many other aspects of our lives…"

"Mm, he'd rejected everyone else. This Protector Assistant still needs to be reassigned from his current situation, though." Mycroft gestured for Lestrade to open the menu. The Detective Inspector raised both eyebrows – obviously looking at the prices. "Don't you worry about paying. My treat."

"Mm." Lestrade frowned and scratched his nose. "So, what is the Protector doing right now?"

"He's in Turkey." Mycroft's face was inscrutable in the dim lighting of the restaurant. "Or at least, he was until recently."

"What happened?"

"Shot. Shoulder injury, needs a mechanical replacement. I have already arranged all of it. His pathway has been redirected to cross with Sherlock's. The gears of his life have been altered to spin in an entirely new direction."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow, impressed. "All in an afternoon's work, I suppose?" he asked.

"Mm, yes." Mycroft's mouth twitched in a smile. "It's only a matter of time. Shall we order?"

Lestrade nodded.

* * *

><p>John woke up in a room. His bed was uncomfortably hard, even for military standards, and the bedposts were shiny brass. A scent of sickness and death hung heavily in the air. His left shoulder had numbed down to prickly discomfort, and the whiteness of the walls, the bedspread, and the ceiling blinded him somewhat.<p>

"Captain Watson! I hope you're feeling better?"A doctor strode towards him, beaming and holding a clipboard. He was dressed from head to toe with white, punctuated only by brown leather straps that helped his sleeves stay in place and a belt to hold his equipment. "I have to say, you were out for quite a while and we did fear greatly for your health –"

"How long was I out?" John asked weakly.

"Two weeks. You ran the risk of contracting typhoid for a while there – that was when we feared the most for you – but luckily it seems that you've narrowly avoided death! However, there is the matter of your left shoulder…"

John blinked. He tried to move his left arm and felt an unfamiliar metal creaking.

"We've had to amputate and replace it. It may have struck muscle, but the wound was quickly infected, and…" the doctor trailed off, sighing. "I'm afraid that your use of that shoulder will be limited at best, even though we have replaced it with a very fine mechanical set."

John moved his arm again. The metallic joint was well-oiled; the cogs turned beautifully, albeit mechanically.

"Will I be able to return to combat?" he asked after a moment.

"Between your shoulder and your leg… I'm afraid they've already arranged to have you sent back to England."

His leg! John frowned, but in the moment that he thought about his leg – the right one, the one that had been grazed by the bullet – it flared up. He cringed.

"Psychosomatic, I'm afraid. When you return to London there will be a Therapist to aid you on your way to recovery. It has all been set up."

John cringed even harder. Once again, everyone else had planned the future for him. Invalided home, sent to a Therapist… next thing he knew he would have a Reassignment, too. Something mundane. Something that would put him away from the call of danger and into a stew of monotony for the rest of his life.

The doctor walked away. John looked up at the ceiling and groaned.


	8. A Meeting at Bart's

**Part VII**

Smoke in the air, carriages in the roads, noise everywhere else – London teemed with life, and London was exactly what John missed. The regimental order of the army stepped into the background – here, the clock ran haywire, whistles blowing erratically, bells ringing at all hours. Soot from the factory polluted the skies, but there was vitality to the masses. The factories were filled with the noises of the Workers from dawn to dusk.

London used to be coloured with vibrant advertisements and signs. Now the shops were largely military drab, the stones darkened with soot as the factories churned out munitions twenty-four seven. The walls were plastered with propaganda posters. The nation was on the brink of reassigning the budget so that everything went to war. Total war.

John remembered the start of the war. He reckoned everyone else his age remembered it, the newspapers having blared the news the day they got their Assignments. However, even though war had been declared, the fighting hadn't started until three years into the so-called war. Before then, the sky corsairs had been pillaging everyone as per usual. They only became formidable three years in, and by that time the British had managed to quietly ship out as many soldiers as possible.

The descent into total war was approaching now, two years into actual fighting. John cursed his rotten luck at being shot so early on, especially since his leg gave a jolt of pain as he stepped out of the hansom cab and limped up to the door of his Therapist.

Within moments, he was sitting in a chair and bored out of his mind, his cane resting next to him against the armchair. It bore the handle of a revolver with an elaborately-carved barrel; Harry had wheedled their father to lend her money so she could buy it for him. He wouldn't have accepted it had it not been for the fact that the hospital-issued cane was flimsy and simply awful-looking.

John half-heartedly listened to his Therapist, nodded and mumbled his "mmhmms" and "okays" at the right intervals, and barely took in her suggestion to keep a diary or at least write down everything that happened to him. Nothing would ever happen to him now, so why would he bother to bore himself with his petty everyday troubles? After the danger of the war, everything else seemed ridiculously ordinary in comparison.

"Nothing happens to me," he muttered as he left at the end of the session, and clunked his way down the busy streets to Regent's Park. The mechanical wildlife was in full force by now, shining and squawking in the noontime sun. The lake shimmered with every ripple in a way that reminded him of the jewel-like Mediterranean, moments before the attack.

"Watson! John Watson!" someone called. John turned to see his old Assignment Agent, Mike Stamford, sitting on a bench feeding the live pigeons that often mingled with the mechanical ones. Mankind had hunted almost every creature to extinction, and while the governments had been quick to set up protections for the few that remained, it also sought to repopulate each familiar and well-liked species with mechanical counterparts. Thus, one would often see brass bumblebees zooming in and out of mechanical hives in the summer.

"Mr. Stamford!" John exclaimed, shifting the cane from one hand to the other in order to shake the Agent's hand.

"Mike, please. How nice it is to see you! Last time I saw you, you were just sixteen! How's the army treating you?"

John laughed bitterly. "Invalided home, mechanical shoulder and a limp. They treat me well enough, I guess, with a tiny injury pension."

"I'll treat you to lunch, John. How does the Criterion sound to you?"

* * *

><p>"I'm afraid we're going to have to start rationing next month, sir."<p>

Mycroft looked up from the report. "Three quarters of the budget diverted to the military! This is ridiculous. When I made the decision to go to war –"

"We weren't expecting formidable enemies. There have been more attacks on zeppelins, although now our boys have largely managed to escape. 413a was the last one that didn't escape, and 221b was the last one with a significant amount of casualties."

"What of the front lines? Since the death of Sir Patterson, I haven't received news of any daring tactics out front. Are we having tea with the enemy now?" Mycroft glowered at the Messenger over his teacup. The Messenger took a few steps back. "I will look over this budget and revise it," Mycroft snarled. "Total war shouldn't be inevitable, but at this rate we appear to be on the brink of it. One million pounds in debt and no significant victories. Shameful."

As the Messenger scrambled to report to his superiors, Mycroft lowered his teacup and buried his head in his hands. He needed something stronger. Brandy, perhaps.

"Brandy," he snapped at the droid. It whirred into life and started fumbling about the cabinets, looking for the decanter. Mycroft turned in his seat to look out the window, at the noontime sun. London raged on ahead of him, all smoke and steam and noise and life. He smiled slightly, knowing that at least one part of his plan was going to be carried out today.

He reached for his telephone and dialled Sherlock. Naturally he was ignored. He dialled again. Ignored.

On the third attempt, Sherlock picked up. "What is it that's so serious, brother?" He sounded snappish, but then again, he always was.

"You're at Bart's, I hope?"

"Why would I need to be at Bart's? I'm busy disproving Lestrade in front of the papers."

"Be there in the early afternoon. Your Protector's come home. If you want that Consulting Detective post, you will be there when he is."

"He better be there, then," Sherlock ground out, before hanging up.

* * *

><p>The Criterion at midday was not as bustling as it usually would be in the evenings, but it was busy enough for whatever business Stamford seemed to have in mind. John watched him as he fumbled through his briefcase, his eyebrows quirking in puzzlement.<p>

Finally, the Assignment Agent pulled out a silver folder and handed it to John, smiling.

"Your Reassignment," he said. John took the folder, frowning. The golden words read Protector Assistant this time around. John suddenly felt as if all the air had been knocked out of him.

"Oh," he said after a moment, staring at the words. The Protector Assistant was one of the most dangerous and coveted posts. British society was divided as ever into two spheres, the aristocracy and the rich against the bourgeoisie and the proletariat. The upper sphere usually had their own variety of offices that were more often handed down than Assigned; the closest that the lower sphere ever got to the upper sphere was by becoming a Protector Assistant to one of them. A rare Assignment, the Protector Assistant – especially one with experience – was just as highly coveted by the upper class as the lower class coveted the job.

"The Archagent insisted we give you this position. It appears that the role of the Consulting Detective has a potential – nay, an inevitable – successor, and the Archagent has insisted that you are the only man for the job of protecting this successor." Mike smiled thinly. "After lunch, I can take you over to meet him."

"Consulting Detectives aren't usually from the upper class, are they? I mean, it's an Assignment most of the time," John pointed out, tucking into his pasta. He looked around him, feeling very out of place despite his collared shirt, breeches, and striped jumper. "But the Archagent of Occupations is an upper-class job. Hereditary. And if the Archagent's taking a personal interest in the successor and his Protector, then I guess they're related?"

"Very perceptive." Mike smirked. "This Consulting Detective-to-be is indeed from the same family as the Archagent."

"I see." John was pretty sure that the only reason that he was getting this information was because of his new Assignment. Everyone knew the Archagent was a hereditary job. They didn't know which family held it.

"I'll take you to meet him at St. Bartholomew's Hospital," continued Mike, sipping from his wineglass. "You should know the place rather well, I hope."

"Trained there for a year, yeah," John nodded. He looked aside at his folder. "Wow. Protector Assistant. This is… well, I don't know if I'm ready for the job. I mean… I've been shot in the shoulder and…"

"Don't worry too much about it," Mike replied, grinning. "I mean, wouldn't your great-great-great-grandfather have said the same when he was invalided home and reassigned?"

* * *

><p>It was at two in the afternoon when the door to Sherlock's usual laboratory at Bart's opened without warning and Mike Stamford stepped in followed by a short young man with fair hair and a striped jumper. Said young man was leaning heavily on a cane with a handle in the shape of a revolver. As he looked about, he took the opportunity to consult a fob watch.<p>

"Ah, Mike. What brings you over here this afternoon?" Sherlock asked, only momentarily looking up from his examination of the crime scene photographs. A rack of test tubes sat before him, next to a dictionary of poisons. "It better be good; I'm in the middle of an investigation."

"Oh, I suppose it's good. I was told to report here at fourteen hours sharp and to give this young man a Reassignment." Mike took a seat at one of the lab stools. "This is Dr. John Watson."

"New Protector Assistant?" Sherlock looked up. "I hope you do realise that this has been Mycroft's machinations for the past three weeks or so? I honestly don't know why he even bothers."

"Give John a chance, though, he's a good kid."

"Invalided from Turkey, shot down by sky corsairs, originally Assigned as an Army Surgeon. Has a brother who appears to be a Worker and also an alcoholic. Also has a psychosomatic limp." Sherlock paused and gave John one more scrutinising scan. "Therapy's not working well for him. Unfortunately, having received the file beforehand does tend to put a damper on my observations. I can assure you, though, that I haven't looked at the file in about a week and that the information's in want of an update. Specifically that his left shoulder is now mechanical."

He turned to look at John, who goggled at him.

"How?"

"Your haircut and your stance suggest military. You're tanned, but fair about the wrist – abroad, not sunbathing. Distinct rivet-shapes about your left shoulder, from the metal covering over your new shoulder. The best way to get injured abroad these days is to become a victim of a corsair attack in Turkey. The average army pension for an invalid isn't enough to get you that cane, and judging by the rest of your clothes you're not a very ostentatious person. Your Assignments are largely bourgeoisie-level Assignments, although if your brother is a Worker it could easily be said that your family has a modest income. You checked your watch when you came in. Once again, the watch is rather ostentatious for someone like you, so it must have been a gift or a hand-me-down. The watch is scratched but polished – you must have polished it, since it seems pretty recent, so therefore the older owner must have had it first. A hand-me-down, then. It reads Harry Watson on the backside, so I can safely assume that it's from your alcoholic older brother."

John's brows drew closer, more furrowed. "And how could you have known about the drinking?"

"Considering the plight of the Workers, I would be surprised if he wasn't. However, look at the keyhole." He reached over – John had been standing close enough for him to notice – and pointed at the setting-arbour. "Scratches around the edge. Every time he goes to wind it his hands are shaking. Never see a sober man's watch with that, never see a drunk's without."

"And the limp?"

"You're standing right now, like you've forgotten about it. You had a bad limp coming in – with that bad of a limp, you ought to take a seat." Almost as if he had wrought a spell over the other, John winced and accepted the chair that Mike had pulled out. Smirking, Sherlock leaned forward and examined his test tubes.

"Of course, like I said before all of this has been dampened somewhat by the fact that I have had your file for a couple of weeks, hence me knowing that you were an Army Surgeon. The Consulting Detective's quarters are always located at 221B Baker Street. We'll go take a look at it right now if you'd like."

John looked at him quizzically, and in the lighting Sherlock wasn't sure why he hadn't noticed the striking blue of the other man's eyes. They were dark blue, almost like the early evening sky. "Problem?" Sherlock asked hesitantly.

"How are you so sure that I'll take the Assignment?"

Sherlock smirked. "Take a look back in your family tree. Five generations. You'll see." He looked back at Stamford. "I think this meeting can draw to an end. I've got to report to Lestrade." With that, he got up and scribbled down a few notes in a notebook before taking the photographs. "Afternoon!"

* * *

><p>John had never met anyone so infuriating in his life. The way Sherlock talked about him as if he wasn't there and then detailed out how he knew everything (well, almost everything) about him intimidated and infuriated him at the same time.<p>

And yet he was intrigued. The man was clearly intelligent and definitely a lot more interesting than most people.

"Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective-to-be." Mike smiled at him. "What'd you think of him?"

"I… don't know what to think?" John asked, shrugging. "I mean… he knew… a lot about me. It's… disconcerting."

"It's a Holmes thing. That's how they've held the Archagent occupation for a century or so."

"So they've had it from the start?"

"Yes. Mycroft Holmes the Elder was the first Archagent of Occupations and from thereon it's been handed down to the firstborn male of the direct generation. In fact, the current Archagent bears Mycroft's name."

"So if the Holmeses were capable of getting top-tier jobs, then why is Sherlock…?"

"Here, as a Forensic Researcher about to become a Consulting Detective? It's in his nature. He's always been so curious about crime, pathology, forensics. Nothing in the upper sphere appealed to him."

"So he got himself an Assignment."

"Even nobility can get Assignments if they're so inclined."

John laughed shortly. "Yeah, I guess," he muttered after a moment. Throughout his life so far, he'd had so little contact with people outside his sphere that he often forgot that there was a whole level of upper class families maintaining the machines of society. School had done its job, indoctrinating children into not taking notice of the upper class if necessary and obeying them when they had to take notice.

_For they are the watchmakers of our nation, the factory owners of our society. They keep us running, and for that we are grateful._

"You think you can work with him, John?" Stamford asked after a moment.

John nodded. "I could, I suppose. I could."


	9. The Consulting Detective is In

**Part VIII**

Sherlock slipped into his new Assignment as Consulting Detective as naturally as breathing. As soon as John had moved in as his Protector Assistant – as soon as John's mug was in the kitchen and John's pillow was on the squishier armchair and John's revolver was sitting on his desk upstairs – Sherlock had commenced his duties. The Consulting Detective was in, and ready to go.

Already pinned on the wall above the mantelpiece were the photographs of the past three suicides. _Apparent _suicides. Each victim took the same poison, and each victim was tied to the war in some way.

Sherlock shed his coat, draping it over his own armchair. He adjusted his silken purple vest and steeped his fingers together in his thinking pose, staring at the photographs.

"The facts run thus, John," he announced as John's footsteps rang down the stairs. Moments later the fair-haired man was in the room. Sherlock chanced a glance at him. The man was wearing yet another jumper, and leaning heavily on his cane as usual.

"Hm?" John asked. "Any tea?"

"Kettle should whistle any minute now." At that moment the kettle screeched. A coal-fuelled stovetop usually required a lot of coal, but luckily for them Mycroft paid their Landlady directly for living expenses. Coal and ice (for the icebox) were expensive.

"I suppose you're too busy thinking to get that," John muttered, going over and turning the dial that would shut off the stove. "By the way, you were wrong."

"About what?"

"About Harry. Harry's my sister."

Sherlock made a scathing noise. "Sister! I knew there was something off."

"Yeah." John limped back moments later with a mug of tea. "What about the facts, then?"

"Mm, yes, the facts run thus. First victim – Sir Jeffrey Patterson – was a Tactician as well as an Assignment Agent. He'd been pushing for the descent into total war ever since actual conflict erupted. In total war situations, about eighty-three percent of the boys are thus assigned into the military and a majority of the girls to the factories. Munitions for the battlefield, the military-industrial complex. Patterson was found in a warehouse."

"And the second?"

"James Phillimore, a Clerk at the Ministry of Defence. Last seen by his friend and co-worker Andrew West on a rainy evening, found in the morning dead outside an abandoned Recreational Centre. According to the recorded testimonial on the phonograph, West last saw his friend return home to fetch an umbrella."

"Didn't West himself disappear?"

"Two days after Phillimore's death, yes. No suspicion in the death, though. Alibi perfect for that night. He'd been with his fiancée Violet."

"Right, and the third?"

Sherlock smirked. "Beth Davenport. Munitions Factory Manager. Found in an airfield. All three of these people died in ways that make it seem intentional. Suicidal. But there's something… odd. They're all linked to the war."

"We're all linked to the war now, aren't we?"

"Mm, yes, but these…" At that moment, there came the sound of clattering hooves and a knock down below. "Lestrade," Sherlock murmured, walking over to the window to look out at Baker Street.

Moments later, their Landlady Mrs. Hudson came bustling up. She wore a proper black dress trimmed with purple lace, buttoned to the collar and the cuffs and adorned with a cameo brooch. "Detective Inspector Lestrade's here to see you, Sherlock. Seems like the next suicide's coming up your alley!"

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied as Lestrade came rattling up the stairs.

"You really ought to check the state of your rooms, Sherlock. What a mess! I'd clean up, but I'm not your housekeeper."

Sherlock had known Mrs. Hudson far longer before he moved in as the next Consulting Detective. After all, he had, when his predecessor Poirot had been sick, taken on the case of her philandering and murderous husband and helped the authorities in Florida execute him. But then again, he had impinged on Poirot's Assignment so often that about half of London seemed to owe him one favour or another.

"Of course, of course." Sherlock waved her away now to focus his attention on Lestrade. "A fourth suicide, then?"

"Jennifer Wilson, the infamous Propagandist. Found in Brixton, Lauriston Gardens. Left a note. Will you come?"

"We'll hail our own cab." Lestrade nodded and promptly left. Sherlock looked over at John, raising both eyebrows.

"Well? You could just sit there and reread a _Treatise on Modern Society_ until you die of boredom…"

It'd only been a day since they met, and already the game was afoot. Sherlock was raring for his chance to prove his worth. It was written all over his face.

"Why would I do that?" John asked.

"Well, as an ex-Army Doctor I'd suppose you'd seen enough violent deaths to last you a lifetime."

"Mm, yes, far too much. Especially with the burning zeppelin and that corsair attack."

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh god yes."

* * *

><p>Jennifer Wilson was very well-known for her written propaganda. She'd been responsible for the "Soldiers, Bear Your Arms" piece that had adorned the headlines of every newspaper once the fighting in the Turkish war had broke out.<p>

_Soldiers, bear your arms. Now is the time to face the glorious death. Now is the time to rust the machines of your enemies with blood. They are no better than automatons, no better than broken machines. Smash their clocks, destroy their planes, burn every last corsair ship you can find until these Turkish heathens have been driven back into the pit from whence they came. Soldiers, now is your hour._

The piece had been responsible for the sharp spike in military-related Assignments all the years after. Now its author lay dead on the third floor of an abandoned house in Brixton.

Pink was the first adjective that popped into John's mind when he saw her prone form. She lay prostrate, dressed in a violently pink dress that shimmered in the gas lamps. Her hair had been done in a chignon, adorned with pink feathers.

"What can you tell us about her?" Lestrade asked Sherlock, who had bent down with his observation goggles and set to work.

"She's been unhappily married for about ten years, and she's had a string of lovers… she intended to stay overnight, judging by the size of her trunk –"

"Her trunk?"

"Mm, yes, she had a trunk. Wheeled, in fact. She'd been walking through rain and strong winds – but not for very long, so I assume she took a cab…" He leaned in closer to inspect the note. Scratched into the rotting floorboards was the word 'Rache'.

"What about the note?" a snide voice asked from the doorway. John turned to see a man with a terrible haircut and a pointed, almost rat-like face. He was clad in the coat of a scientist or a doctor, over a set of striped bloomers and black leather boots. "Rache. German for revenge."

"Why would a British Propagandist want to leave an angry note in German, Anderson? Use your brain," Sherlock growled, getting up to shut the door in his face. "Obviously she was intending to write the name 'Rachel'."

"Rachel?" Lestrade demanded, incredulous.

"Yes, Rachel. Go find Rachel. In the meantime, where've you put her trunk?"

"There was no trunk."

"What do you mean, 'there was no trunk'? Look at the splash marks on the back of her legs. She was wheeling a trunk with her."

"But there was no trunk."

Sherlock frowned for a moment, and suddenly his eyes lit up. "Ah! I see. Well, in that case… I'm afraid we're looking at a murder. Serial killings! Oh, this is getting to be quite fun!" Clapping his hands like a child at Christmas, the new Consulting Detective practically skipped down the stairs and out the door, leaving his new Protector Assistant behind.

* * *

><p>John found Sherlock lying on the couch when he finally managed to return to Baker Street. "You left me out there," he stated.<p>

"Do try to keep up occasionally."

"You left me. Out there." John glared at Sherlock. Never had he met someone so careless about their Protector Assistant! "That Sergeant Detective –"

"Sally Donovan?"

"Yeah. She says you get off on these things. These murders."

"Don't be absurd. I get off on intellectual stimulation." Sherlock reached for the coffee table and grabbed his pipe. Striking a match, he filled the bowl with tobacco and started to puff at it introspectively.

"That's bad for you," John remarked. "Damages breathing. As if London wasn't smoggy enough already."

"Breathing's boring," drawled Sherlock, closing his eyes. "Rachel… hm, Rachel."

"Who do you think she is?"

"I'm not so sure if Rachel is a person," Sherlock replied, setting the pipe down. "Or at least… she was a person at one point… and…" Suddenly, his eyes lit up. John frowned.

"What is it?" he asked.

"You have a phone, right?"

"Yes…"

"You can help me pull an advertisement in the morning paper."

"Can't you do it yourself?"

"Name may be recognised. You did read my treatise, right?"

"The _Science of Deduction_, mm." John walked over to the window. "I suppose at this point in time it's not hard to figure out how you can deduce a Railroad Porter by his watch and a Writer by his fingers?"

"Oh, those are simple." Sherlock grinned. "Now, back to the case. The local papers let me send in my advertisements via textogram."

"What would you want me to say?"

Sherlock grinned and held up a ring. John frowned, so he explained, "this ring is an engagement ring that was meant for a finger much slimmer than that of Jennifer Wilson's. This, along with taking the trunk, was the killer's mistake. I've managed to recover the trunk –" and while saying that, he dragged in a wheeled trunk and set it on a chair. John's frown deepened. "The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens but forgot that her luggage was with him, so he had to dispose of it somehow. In his hurry to get out of the door, he dropped this in the mud outside the house. I recovered it and I searched for any skips that could be accessed by a cab five minutes from Lauriston Gardens. Knowing that the trunk had to be pink, it took me only a short while to find the right skip."

John stared. "That's… brilliant."

"So therefore, I'd like for you to use your phone to send a textogram about recovering a lost engagement ring. Make sure to say that I pulled the ad, but to keep my name out of it when published. Off the record, as they say. Use your name instead, and change the address to 22 Northumberland Street. Everyone knows the Consulting Detective lives here, it'll be no use."

John set to dialling out the message. Sherlock reached into the valise and pulled out a laptop very similar to that of John's. He turned the key, and was immediately faced with a password request.

"Hm," he muttered, turning off the laptop and replacing it in the trunk.

"Done," John said after a moment, sending the message. "What do we do in the meantime?"


	10. A Study in Pink

**Part IX**

After the advert was posted, Sherlock and John headed down to Northumberland Street with the ring to wait for the pickup. It didn't take a while before an old lady came over to reclaim it for her daughter. Sherlock quickly gave chase with John racing after him – his cane forgotten on the doorstep to number 22 – but the chase soon became fruitless. As the evening sun set over the rooftops and the whistles blew for the Workers to report home, the old woman streaked away and leapt onto a waiting cab, seizing the reins and driving away without a backwards glance.

"She ran fast for an old woman," John noted as they staggered back to Baker Street.

"Obviously a young person, then." Sherlock replied, panting slightly. "Possibly an accomplice, dressed very convincingly. Living in Peckham, bah!"

"So we just ran through part of London chasing a bloke in lady's clothes." John giggled, a happy burbling noise that caused a strange fluttering in Sherlock's chest. "That's pretty much the stupidest thing I have ever done."

"I'm assuming you do a lot of stupid things, then?" Sherlock asked, and John laughed hard enough to clutch his sides.

He was definitely not going to divulge to the Consulting Detective that he'd had the very sudden, very stupid idea to lean up and press his lips against the other's. That would be even stupider. As far as he could see, Sherlock was a man married to his work, and Mary still lurked in the back of John's mind like a lonely ghost. He reckoned he should at least pay her a visit soon, see if she was coping.

At that moment, there came an insistent rapping at the door. John staggered over to answer it. Lestrade stood on the doorstep, John's cane in one hand and a serious expression on his face.

"I forgot that?" John asked, looking at Lestrade with raised eyebrows.

"Yes, the owners of 22 Northumberland Street were very concerned about it." Lestrade swept into the hall, his brown coat hanging off his shoulders in a hurry. "We found Rachel."

"Really?" Sherlock raised both eyebrows as the men traipsed up the stairs. "And who is she exactly?"

"Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter – Sherlock, are you withholding evidence?"

"Oh, the trunk? I just recovered it last night. The only thing of importance is the laptop inside, and it's locked." Sherlock frowned. "Why would she scratch her daughter's name into the floor? Why?"

"The victims take the poison themselves, but the killer must have made them take it," John pointed out. "So he could have used the death of her daughter…"

"But that was ages ago. Why would she be upset?"

Lestrade stared at Sherlock. John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock shuffled from one foot to the other, a bit awkwardly.

"Bit not good?"

"Nope."

"Yes, well, if you'd been dying – if you'd been murdered – in your last moments, what would you say?"

"Please, God, let me live?" John asked.

"Oh, would you use your imagination?"

"I don't need to."

The disdainful look on Sherlock's face slipped faster than John could say 'not good'. "Yes, well… if you were clever like Jennifer Wilson, the Propagandist, the one who bent the wills of thousands of Assignment Agents, the one who kept a string of lovers hidden from her husband… if you were clever like her, you'd be trying to tell us something with your daughter's – oh."

"What?" Lestrade demanded.

"Oh, she was clever, clever, yes! She's cleverer than you and she's dead!" Sherlock seized the laptop and gleefully turned it on. "Rachel is more than just a name. Rachel is a key. Rachel is a project!"

"How so?" John crossed over to Sherlock's side, peering over his shoulder as the laptop lit up with the password-request-screen.

"Rachel is the password into her laptop, and once we can access her files, we can access… aha."

He clicked on a file labelled 'Rachel'. Immediately a document appeared, titled R.A.C.H.E.L.

"Project R.A.C.H.E.L. Remembering Ancestral Careers, Helping England's Legacy. Less sentimentally termed as the Legacy Project. Obviously this is a press release for the propagandists to blow everything out of proportions, especially in regards to the current situation. Aha. It tells us nothing except the usual. Needing knowledge to win the war, knowledge from the past, history, yadda-yadda-yadda. Now, what have we here?"

At the very bottom of the page was a list of names. John frowned.

"That's a list of names," Lestrade pointed out, having moved to look over Sherlock's shoulder as well.

"Very perceptive," Sherlock snapped. "According to Mrs. Wilson, though, this is a list of the opponents of the project. In fact, most of these opponents are members of the Radicals."

"Radicals?" John echoed.

"I sometimes forget that the lower classes don't get as much briefing about the political climate of the country until they're dragged into the Radical cause." Sherlock set the laptop down. "There is a faction of people in this country who would like to return to the way things were a century ago. Back to the days before the need for factory-like efficiency in society which led to the creation of the Assignments Agency. Now, when this war broke out, the Radicals must have thought it the perfect time to stage their revolution. They haven't quite staged it yet, but these murders were for that cause."

"The victims are all linked to the war," Lestrade stated.

"Exactly. This killer must have some sort of grudge against the war, and as the Radical pamphlets so surreptitiously distributed in back alleys indicate, the Radical agenda also involves ending the war with Turkey. What Mrs. Wilson has here is a list of those who are open Radicals. Now, allow me to do some comparisons…"

He grabbed John's laptop, typed in a password, roamed through the files, and finally selected another document. "And here is a list of the Assignments of those open Radicals. Mycroft's database comes in handy so very often."

"How do you even get into Mycroft's database?" Lestrade demanded.

"It's not exactly Fort Knox," Sherlock replied calmly as he scanned the lists. "Now, we saw the old woman jump onto a cab and seize the reins. When she went to retrieve the engagement ring I had a good look at her hands. The callouses along the fingers are exactly those that would match a Cab Driver's."

"So she, or rather, he, was actually a jarvey," John remarked, whistling slightly.

"Mm, precisely. The position of the Cab Driver is perfect for the crimes. Who is someone we can trust, even if we don't know them? Who blends into the background wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd? A Cab Driver. There is only one Cab Driver on this list, and his name is Jefferson Hope."

At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Sherlock looked out the window, frowned, and promptly left the room.

* * *

><p>Mycroft watched the panels of the surveillance droids, his finger steeped together and his brows furrowed. After a moment, he sighed and reached for his cake and a glass of brandy.<p>

"Sir, are we leaving soon?" Anthea peered in from the hallway.

"Mm, yes. In a moment." Mycroft continued to watch the panels. "Make sure the horses are well-oiled."

"Already checked."

"Good." For the most part, most carriage and cabs were drawn by mechanical horses. There were several steam-driven ones, though, termed automobiles. Those were largely for the wealthy. Mycroft was just too lazy to learn how to use one.

After a moment, the Archagent stood up, donned his hat, and left the office. "We'll be heading for an old abandoned school near Peckham," he told the Driver. "Do hurry, though."

Within moments, they had arrived on the scene. Sherlock was already walking away with John in tow. The streetlights flickered to life above them; the fog was starting to creep. Mycroft stepped out of the hansom with Anthea in tow, raising an eyebrow at the duo.

"Well! Another case cracked. How very public-spirited." He didn't need to tell Sherlock that he had seen everything on the surveillance droid – Jefferson Hope driving him to Peckham and giving him the choice of the two pills and explaining everything. He didn't need to tell John that he'd seen him carry out the duty of Protector Assistant, shooting Jefferson before Sherlock took the pill. He also didn't need to tell them that Sherlock had chosen the bad pill.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "And what exactly are you doing here?"

"Just congratulating you on your first _official_ case as Consulting Detective." Mycroft smirked. "I see you've discovered some things about our little project."

"The Legacy one?" John asked.

"Mm, yes. Try not to tell everyone?" Mycroft's smirk grew wider.

"You must be Mycroft Holmes, the Archagent," John continued. "I mean, if you've come this way to just congratulate him…"

"You are coping well with my brother, John? He can be quite a handful."

Sherlock scoffed. John smiled. "Yeah, he can. But I can handle it."

"Really." Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Sherlock, you need to contact Mummy later this week. She's over the moon about you getting the post. Says you're finally getting somewhere with your life."

"Tell her to sod off." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"After all you've done to upset her? What a shame."

"Upset her? I wasn't the one that upset her."

Mycroft sighed. "Just send her a letter; it'll do her good."

Sherlock sent him a venomous look. John hid a smirk. Mycroft looked over at the old, abandoned school.

"So, Jefferson Hope, the Anarchist Cabbie?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"He only turned anarchist after his fiancée got killed in the war," Sherlock replied. "Lucy Ferrier, Battlefield Nurse."

"Ah, died last September in a ground attack by the corsairs." Mycroft nodded sadly. "Well, at least they think they're in better places now."

"Good evening, then," Sherlock muttered.

"If John hasn't taken a look at the family tree yet, do show him soon," Mycroft rejoined.

As Sherlock and John walked away, Mycroft turned to Anthea and instructed her to assign more surveillance droids to the two of them.

They would need it, after all.

* * *

><p>"What does he mean, look at the family tree?" John asked Sherlock as the two walked away.<p>

"You remember your great-great-great grandfather, correct?" Sherlock asked in return, drawing his scarf tighter around him.

"Yes, he has my name."

"Exactly."

"What?"

"My great-great-great granduncle's name was Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective, the original Consulting Detective."

John blinked. And suddenly he realised it.

"My great-great-great grandfather's name was John Watson. Army Surgeon, turned Protector Assistant."

They paused.

"And he was assigned to Sherlock Holmes, wasn't he? That's why Mycroft was so insistent that I get this job."

"Exactly." Sherlock frowned.

"What are you frowning about, Sherlock?"

"Moriarty."

"Name sounds familiar. Can't put my finger on it."

"He's a celebrated Maths Professor. Not sure why Hope would implicate him in this crime. Hm." Sherlock's brows furrowed deeper. "I have absolutely no idea."

* * *

><p>"Hope is dead," the woman reported, and the man's smile flickered in the gaslight.<p>

"I know," he replied calmly. "Do you have your payment?"

"Right here." She took out the silver key and handed it to him.

"Thank you." He kissed the cold metal and tucked it away.

She sat down across from him, watching his cruel black eyes in the flimsy light. "He was dying anyway, Hope. He was only in it for his own purposes."

"Don't repeat to me what I already know, darling," the man drawled. "It gets so awfully tedious. Everything's going so well right now…"

"Who's next, though?"

"I need you to deliver these invitations," the man said suddenly, pulling out of his jacket pocket three parchment envelopes. "Give them to Rucastle. He will know what to do."

"All right."

She watched his smile grow wider and wider in the dim light, spreading into the grin of a Cheshire cat.


	11. The Bruce Partington File

**Part X**

It was foggy on the day of the funeral. The small church was crammed with people who had known Arthur. Anthea stood in the back, her head lowered.

Religion was the opiate of the masses. Belief in the ultimate clockworker, the great watchmaker who was omnipotent and wise tided over the workers, the downtrodden, the struggling. The bourgeoisie took comfort in the sterile morality. The proletariat found solace in heaven.

_Heaven is a place where every man will be a king. _

Anthea wasn't expecting the Holmeses. But Mycroft showed up, his travelling coat flapping behind him and his umbrella tapping against the stone floor. Moments later his younger brother Sherlock came striding in, followed by a man dressed in military uniform – his new Protector Assistant. Anthea knew Watson had been invalided from the military. She hadn't known he had been in the same regiment as her brother.

They stood by the quiet grave in the churchyard after the ceremony. Mycroft smiled at her sadly, silently. Sherlock's brows were furrowed in thought. John Watson was looking at the grave with an inscrutable look on his face.

"Shame he died so soon," he said, and Anthea could see the sadness and the confusion in his eyes. She wondered why his voice sounded familiar. "I hope you're all right," he added, looking at her sadly. He licked his lips, possibly out of nerves. "I mean, you _are_ his sister…"

"I'll be fine," Anthea mumbled. Sherlock lifted his head, his keen eyes scrutinising her.

"Good," Mycroft interjected breezily. "Shall we go, then?" Anthea nodded, following the Archagent back into the church. As soon as they left, John turned to Sherlock and raised an eyebrow.

"So?" he asked.

"She's safe."

"How so?"

"Charpentier had accepted his Assignment. Hope said that Lucy Ferrier didn't want to be a Battlefield Nurse."

"Misassignment?" John arched the other eyebrow.

"Done on purpose, yes. In face of the war, it was necessary."

"Her Agent was Patterson, wasn't it?"

"Possibly. Hope only became Radical –"

"Because Ferrier died as a consequence of the Misassignment." John whistled. "Poor sods."

"But just because one is a Radical doesn't mean one is an Anarchist. Anarchists _do _things. Once Hope had the means to act on the Radical agenda he became an Anarchist, see?"

"How'd he…?"

"Moriarty. His sponsor. The question is, why would a Maths Professor sponsor a Radical?"

John said nothing, only looked at the grave of his Soldier friend.

* * *

><p>A week passed. Sherlock was amazed. And judging by the slightly winded expression on John's face when he'd notified him of that fact, so was John.<p>

John had already done his duty as Protector Assistant, and he had done well. Sherlock was pretty sure Lestrade had had an inkling of who shot Jefferson Hope in Peckham last week, but to his credit the Detective Inspector didn't press charges. Sherlock had been in danger. What surprised him, though, was the fact that John Watson was perfectly capable of killing a man and then laughing it off moments later.

Excluding the foreshadowing provided by their ancestors, Sherlock had to admit that he was wrong about John. John wasn't dull or predictable. John was a mystery all by himself. He'd written up their first case in a diary, entitled 'A Study in Pink'. Sherlock had taken the liberty of reading it. He'd found it overly sentimentalised, and John pointed out that if Sherlock attempted to write it, he'd bore everyone to death.

Throughout the subsequent week, he had kept a careful study of his Protector Assistant in his head. But John was simply unpredictable. He didn't balk at seeing heads in the icebox, or components of mechanical creatures in the cupboards. Even when a dormouse had turned up drowned in the teapot, John had disposed of it with a perfectly straight face and muttered something like "at least it didn't die in the treacle".

However, today was the day Sherlock found out that John did not appreciate being woken up at two in the morning by gunfire, especially when said gunfire was simply Sherlock being bored and using the wall for target practice.

"I've got a date with Mary Morstan tonight; can't you let me sleep?" the grumpy ex-Army Surgeon groused on his way back to bed, confiscating the revolver as he went.

Date. A date? Sherlock had noticed that John had been writing more letters than usual, but he hadn't anticipated anything of the "interacting with the fairer sex" sort of activity. He felt a strange angry curling in his stomach at the thought, and when John officially arrived downstairs for breakfast Sherlock was looking through his microscope and pointedly ignoring his Protector Assistant.

"What's so interesting?" John asked. Sherlock didn't reply. He was in the middle of a blood-splatter test, and the last thing he needed was a conversation.

John made tea and walked over to the window, watching London come to life. Far off in the distance the factories started belching smoke and soot again. Zeppelins, planes, and hot air balloons floated past in the distance. Sherlock found it all extremely dull – no significant cases since the Study in Pink. They'd been taking minor cases – locked-room thefts, predictable murders. Lestrade and the Met provided some cold case files to solve, when push came to shove.

But still, Sherlock had to admit that he was hoping to hear more from Jefferson Hope's comrades. The lack of such contact disconcerted him.

* * *

><p>Tucking her golden ringlets into an intricate hairstyle, Mary Morstan tilted her head and looked at her swan-white neck. A string of pearls sat on there – a gift from her uncle Thaddeus.<p>

A bouquet of roses sat next to her boudoir, with a letter next to them. Mary couldn't help but feel a thrill of happiness every time she looked over. John was back, John was home, and John was taking her out to dinner and the theatre. He must have so many interesting stories to tell her, because she definitely had things to say about her students.

Mary smiled at herself. She was arrayed in a purple off-the-shoulder dress, tastefully done with frills and black lace along the bustle and skirt. Lacy black fingerless gloves adorned her hands; purple ribbons adorned her hair. Mary applied her makeup as sparsely as possible – she knew John didn't like too much makeup.

There came a knock at her door. Mary turned, calling, "who is it?"

"Miss Morstan, Mr. Watson is at the door," the Maid replied.

"Tell him to wait for me in the parlour; I'll be down shortly."

When Mary descended, she found John dressed in dark suit with a burgundy cravat; he even carried a bowler hat with a clock on the brim. "You… you look nice," John noted, turning pink about the ears.

"Oh, John." Mary grinned. "I've missed you."

She paid no attention to the fact that his left shoulder was stiffer than she remembered – more metallic, even. She also ignored the timepieces strapped to his right wrist, along with the revolver barely peeking out of the holster on his belt. After she had ensconced herself in a purple shawl, they hailed a cab to go to the restaurant.

"You've been well?" Mary asked over dinner.

"Mm, yeah," John replied, looking pensively at his plate. Occasionally he'd look about the restaurant, as if he was looking for someone else.

"What's wrong?"

"N-nothing. I'm expecting… I'm hopefully expecting no one, but I… could be wrong." John smiled, eyes crinkling and mouth twitching into a shadow of his former smile.

"Your letter says you were invalided. Is there something wrong?"

"No, did I tell you about my Reassignment?"

"What is it?"

"Protector Assistant." John raised an eyebrow, shrugged, and returned to his meal. Mary found it all very odd.

"Are you sure you're fine?" she whispered.

"Look, the person I'm protecting… I'm just worried, all right? Since the Reassignment I haven't had the heart to let him out of my sight. What if he gets himself blown up while I'm having dinner with you?"

Mary laughed. "That's absurd. What's the worst he could do?"

The expression on John's face said otherwise.

Mary had to admit, there was something different about John. All throughout dinner, his expression was stony and his silence even stonier. He could say that he was concerned about his charge, but Mary could tell it ran even deeper than that. The war had changed her dear John. His injury had changed him.

"Darling, we don't have to go to the theatre," she told him after dinner. "You look like you need some sleep."

"You try living with a man who shoots the walls at two in the morning," he replied, with the first real smile he'd had all night. Mary smiled in return, leaning in to kiss him. He responded as kindly as ever, cupping her face and drawing her close.

"Get some sleep, John. Go home, all right? I'll still be here. You can send me letters, textograms, whatever."

"Thank you, Mary." John's lips curved up against hers, but the moment he left her arms he was back to the dejected ex-Army Surgeon. Mary could have sworn she felt her heart break for him.

* * *

><p>"I hear John's out with a lady tonight?" Mycroft's smug voice floated in from the doorway. Sherlock flung a pocket watch in Mycroft's general direction.<p>

_Clap_. Mycroft caught it. "Careful. Can't have that breaking."

"I've got plenty of spares."

Mycroft strode into the room and took the seat opposite. "It's been a week since the Jefferson Hope case. Nothing new?"

"Incredibly busy. Swamped with cases, simply swamped." Sherlock tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling.

"And yet here you sit, miserably shooting walls. I thought you didn't like your Protector. You certainly complained about meeting him."

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Sherlock reached for his violin. "Sod off."

"Mm, no, I actually have something to request of you this time." Mycroft smirked and handed over a large envelope. "Regarding the mysterious disappearance and tragic reappearance of Andrew West, the late co-worker of the equally late James Phillimore at the Ministry of Defence."

"Dull." Sherlock was leafing through the envelope's contents.

"Yes, being found on the train tracks a couple miles away from Buckingham Palace is absolutely dull," sighed Mycroft. "But that's not the point. The point is what he's carrying. Or rather, what he _isn't_ carrying."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Have you heard of the Bruce-Partington file?"

Sherlock shook his head and started plucking his violin strings.

"It's probably the most important file in the Legacy Project. Several copies of it have been encoded on special Memory Keys. The copy shared between West and Phillimore is missing, and the last time anyone saw it, it had been in West's possession."

Sherlock's eyes widened for a fraction of a second, but Mycroft caught the gesture all the same.

"Now, we investigated the disappearance when it first occurred, but now that West has been found dead without the Key in his possession, the matter becomes graver. Forget your petty trivia, this is of national importance."

"Hmph."

"Do divulge the information with John when he returns?" Mycroft smirked. "Should be happening any moment now…"

He'd barely trailed off when the door downstairs opened and John entered. Judging by his heavy footfalls across the linoleum, the date had ended too early for his liking.

"Bad date, John?" Mycroft called.

"No, just ended early. Mary said I needed to get some sleep," John replied as he trudged up the stairs.

"Obviously, with a face like that at the dinner table…" Mycroft stood up. "I best be going. Can't be away from the office too long. Budget revisions are coming in ten minutes; we could be looking at total war."

"Puts a bit of damper on a wedding," snarked Sherlock, looking pointedly at John, "having to ration the ingredients for the cake."

"Who says anything about –?"

"Don't mind my brother, John, he's busy being jealous." Mycroft smirked and left, leaving John to flop down into the vacated seat.

"Don't mind mine, he's being an idiot," muttered Sherlock. John's lips twitched up in amusement.

"Well?" he asked. "Mycroft visited. Something important?"

"Obviously; he never derails from his usual route from Pall Mall to Downing Street unless he's got a date with Lestrade, he ran out of cake, or some important government emergency has come up."

"A _date with Lestrade_?"

"Well, they say nothing of the sort's happening, but how else do you explain Mycroft's obsession with diets and appearances? He didn't give a rudder about it when we were younger." Sherlock set the bow to the string and started to play. Violin music filled the air; John closed his eyes and smiled. Sherlock secretly felt that he would do almost anything to see such a look of absolute happiness on John's face again.

After a moment, John spoke up again. "You still haven't told me what's so important. Mycroft didn't come here for cake or Lestrade, so…?"

"We've a case," Sherlock replied as he drew the piece to a close. "He wants us to investigate the death of Andrew West."

"Bloke found on the train lines?"

"The very same."

"Oh." John frowned. "What are the facts, then?"

* * *

><p>"Good job on the latest poster design. I liked the ape in a turban. Very fitting."<p>

"The message may be a bit too docile on yours. 'Keep Calm and Carry On'? We've got nothing to carry on here except our support for the war effort."

The shadows of the night ensconced two men walking down a poorly lit street. One of them was trying to light his pipe. The faint humming of droids making their nightly rounds to light the streetlamps could be heard from far away. In the darkness and the fog, a steam-powered brougham clattered off in the direction of Belgravia.

"Mm, yes, I see where you're coming from. We need to incite nationalism. Fear. Pride. More support, aye?"

"Exactly. What about 'God Save the King'?"

"He'll be croaking soon. The Princess's debutante ball is in a month. She'll be married and ascending the throne before the year is over, mark my words."

The match finally flickered into life. It lit up the pipe of a man with a giant beard and the cigarette of another man with a wiry moustache. The bearded man was a bit more rotund than the moustached man. Both were wearing top hats adorned with goggles, and both carried smudges of printing-press ink on their fingers. Their coats were well-worn, and various writing implements were strapped to their sleeves. They both sported almost identical suitcases.

"Where's the hotel? Can't see a damn thing in this fog," the bearded man growled through a puff of smoke.

"Never mind that, where's the bloody Underground station? The missus won't appreciate me showing up late."

"Send a textogram. We might as well spend the night." They paused under a street lamp to check their watches. "Half-past twenty-three."

"There's a bed and breakfast down this road, I think. Saw the sign in the morning."

They continued to walk down the street. Finally, out of the fog and the gloom came the copper sign, gleaming in the light of the open downstairs windows.

COPPER BEECHES BED & BREAKFAST

"Splendid!" the bearded man exclaimed, clapping his hands together. The moustached man put out his cigarette and ground it out with his heel. Together, the two men ascended the steps to the door, which was copper as well with two beech trees carved into the metal. They pulled the door-lever, which (after a series of complicated-looking pulleys and lifts) sounded a bell inside.

The door was shortly answered by a portly and corpulent man who bore wire-rimmed glasses on his round nose. He had the most admirable collection of chins that either man had ever seen, and when he smiled he displayed all of them. "Welcome, welcome!" he chirped jovially. "Looking for a place to stay? We've plenty of vacancies."

"Yes, thank you, that would be swell. Just one night, then. Two rooms for Henry Fowler and Ernest Toller." The moustache man grinned as he said that, pointing to himself when he said Henry Fowler and at his companion when he said Ernest Toller. The Innkeeper nodded, grinning.

"Let me take your bags upstairs in a moment, then. Make yourselves comfortable in the parlour. I'll be down with the guest book."

"What's the fee?" Ernest Toller asked as they hung up their coats and hats.

The Innkeeper smiled in a way that made his teeth seem even sharper than usual. "For you two? It's free."


	12. Miss Violet Hunter

**Part XI**

A couple of days after the date, John was woken up at two in the morning again. This time, however, a bored Consulting Detective was not to blame.

When he stumped downstairs in his dressing gown to tell Sherlock to quiet his experiments, John was immediately confronted by a small mechanic bloodhound.

A woman's voice blared out of the dog's mouth in between its customary animalistic yips and pants. "Are you Sherlock Holmes?"

John frowned, not sure what to say. What was a mechanical bloodhound doing at Baker Street? "No, I'm not. What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"Obviously here on behalf of a client," came a third voice, still thick with sleep. Sherlock Holmes waddled in moments later, wrapped in his bed sheets. To his sudden discomfort, John noticed that his charge wasn't wearing anything underneath. "Sherlock Holmes requests the name and purpose of M.A.T.I.N. model no. 1895," he snapped, leaning against the mantelpiece.

"My name is Toby," barked the mechanical watchdog. "I am the companion of Violet Hunter. I am here to request your assistance on behalf of my mistress." It (he? She? Toby had a female voice but a male name; John was supremely confused) followed Sherlock as the Consulting Detective flounced over to his chair and flopped down. John took a seat as well, now fully roused. Toby finally stopped and sat down in the centre, between the two chairs.

"I never understood why they insisted on using the word 'terrier' in M.A.T.I.N.," John noted, yawning. "A lot of the models I've seen aren't terriers."

"They couldn't find a better word for dog," Sherlock smirked. M.A.T.I.N. was short for Mechanically Automated Terrier Informant and Nurse, the clockwork companions of many Britishers. The name came from the French word 'mâtin', or watchdog. The first model had, in fact, been a Yorkshire terrier.

"Of course." John rolled his eyes. "So, what's bothering … Violet Hunter? Say, is she by chance any relation to the fiancée of Andrew West?"

"She is – or rather, _was_ – the fiancée of Andrew West," affirmed Toby. "She is a Mechanic."

"A Mechanic," echoed John.

"Yes, and she has recently been presented with a job that seems a bit dubious. She would like to consult with you, in person, today at half-past ten. I can present you with the facts."

"At two in the morning?" John demanded.

"She must be an insomniac," Sherlock replied. "Had a bout of worrying that kept her up, and could only rest once she sent the plea for help. Well, Toby, tell us the facts so we can get back to bed. You can stay here for the time being."

The bloodhound barked happily before starting to tell the tale in its strange, feminine yet metallic voice.

"My mistress is a Mechanic of modest repute. She can fix many things, from double-decker trolleys to automobiles. But she specialises in fixing mechanical animals. People bring over their pets for her to fix, if they know what she specialises in. Recently, though, with so many mechanical animals being scrapped for metal and gears, my mistress has faced a bit of hardship."

"Tell me more about this potential client," Sherlock suggested. Toby cocked its head to the side and fixed the Consulting Detective with its lamp-like eyes.

"The potential client is a man named Jephro Rucastle. I do not know what he does, but my Mistress seemed very uncomfortable with his job offer. She spent all night thinking it over, and has now come to seek your help."

"Physical descriptors?" John asked.

"Short, rotund. Wears glasses. Multiple chins. Smiles a lot."

"Interesting," Sherlock murmured. "Is that all for now, though?"

"Yes," barked Toby.

"Well then!" John grinned, standing up. "I better go back to bed, then –"

"Over here, John," Sherlock gestured for him to follow him. John's eyes went wide for a fraction of a second before he frowned.

"Sherlock, you're aware I don't swing that way?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, the manner in which you use the swings is not my concern. I want to talk about our cases."

John groaned. "Put some clothes on, then."

"What for? Are you coming or not?"

John looked back at Toby, who had curled itself up by the fireplace, and followed the Consulting Detective into his room.

* * *

><p>Sherlock's room was chaotic, but that was mostly because he thrived in chaos. He flopped down onto the bed, still wrapped in the sheets like some giant rolled crêpe. John took a seat next to Sherlock on the bed and looked at him pointedly.<p>

"The cases are linked," Sherlock said after a moment. "Andrew West goes missing and turns up dead, and now his fiancée is being offered a job that she's unsure of taking."

"Yes, I do have to admit that's suspicious, Sherlock, but…"

"I think I will advise her to take the job."

John frowned. Sherlock looked up at him from his sheet-cocoon. "Why?" the Protector Assistant asked after a moment. "If she has second thoughts, should she…?"

"It could be that the offer was too good to be true. In any case, we cannot make a decision without data, and if she doesn't accept the offer, we won't be able to look for more data."

"I see." John was fiddling with the edge of the mattress. Sherlock smiled. John yawned.

"You should sleep," Sherlock noted.

"Yeah, I should get going," John mumbled, starting to clamber to his feet. Sherlock's arm shot out and grabbed his wrist.

"Don't bother. Stay here, all right?"

"What for? You're not wearing any clothes, you've hogged all the blankets already, it's bloody cold and my bed is calling to me. I'll see you at ten."

"Please?" Sherlock looked up at John, pleadingly. Over the past few days, he'd come to appreciate John's soothing presence. The other man was a perfect counterbalance to his constant excitement, a blissfully placid mind to contrast with his own cluttered and chaotic one. And right now, all he knew was that he needed John to stay. He needed, surprisingly enough, someone to talk to.

"All right, move over." Sherlock accordingly scooted over and allowed John a bit of his sheet cocoon. "What's all this about?"

"What's all what?" Sherlock decided to play innocent. Judging by the look on John's face, it was a spectacular failure.

"I was under the impression that you were not a very… cuddly person."

Sherlock snorted. "No, I just need to talk. It does get a bit dull talking to the skull, and Mrs. Hudson has confiscated him again."

One of Sherlock's prized possessions (and oldest friends) was a glass skull music box. Sherlock often wound it to watch the golden gears turn like the cogs in his own head, and the eerie music was a good accompaniment. It brought back memories of his childhood, of Mummy giving it to him on his sixth birthday and Mycroft comparing it to actual human skulls. Sherlock had spent a great deal of his younger years accompanied by the skull, whose name changed from Skully to Yorick to Basil to Jeremy. At the moment, he had dubbed it Benedict.

"Were you playing with it to irritate her again, Sherlock?"

"She put him in a tea cosy. I'll retrieve him later."

John smiled. "I'm sure Benedict loves the tea cosy, Sherlock," he deadpanned. "Now do try to get some sleep."

"Sleeping's boring," muttered the Detective in response. "As soon as we've advised Miss Hunter later today I think we'll go to the train lines closest to Buckingham to examine where her fiancé was found. Since the file said he didn't have a ticket or an Oyster card, and there hadn't been a lot of blood despite his head being bashed in, I'm starting to think that he wasn't killed by the train or falling out of the train. I mean, he could have fallen _off_ the train, but by that time he'd already be dead. I'll need to talk to…" he trailed off, hearing a snore from John. His Protector had fallen asleep. "I'll need to talk to people," Sherlock muttered, looking at the placid face of his Protector. Strange how sleep showed humanity at its most vulnerable.

Smiling to himself, Sherlock drew John closer to him and wrapped the blanket more snugly around them both.

* * *

><p>Miss Violet Hunter still had axel grease in her hair and smudged on her cheeks. John thought she was very pretty, in her own way. The freckles splattered across her nose seemed to complement her messy chestnut hair and her piercing brown eyes. She was dressed in her work clothes – a brass corset over a white puff-sleeved blouse and a set of tan breeches also smudged with grease and paint. Her leather boots were extremely shiny, and she wore a cropped leather jacket held together by brass frogs. A set of goggles nestled in her hair.<p>

"Ah! Toby, my precious!" she exclaimed as soon as she had taken John's seat. Toby ran up to her, panting in an eerie impression of an actual dog. The dark copper flaps of his ears and shawl actually creaked rather noisily.

"Is he good at detecting scents?" Sherlock asked. He was now dressed, back in his usual seat. John sat next to him, his laptop open.

"The very best," Violet replied. "Could detect a metal squirrel from a mile away if you give him a whiff of the types of metal that went into making him. Could also detect a real one, too."

"He's very alive. Almost like a real bloodhound," John added.

"Thanks." Violet grinned. "The scenting thing is one of my inventions. I make a lot of clockwork creatures."

"And so, about that. What is Mr. Rucastle asking you to do?"

"He asked me to make him three humans."

"Clockwork droids," John murmured. Sherlock nodded, taking note.

"Two men, one woman. One of the men has to look very fat, the other one very skinny. The woman should be roughly my height and body size."

"And physical appearances?"

"Absolutely human-looking. It should take close scrutiny to detect that they aren't truly human. The droids must know how to dance and hold conversation."

Sherlock raised both eyebrows. "Nothing else?"

"Nothing else," she agreed.

"I see." Sherlock nodded. "But back to physical appearances. Can you give me what colours must be used?"

"No, he said he'd take care of that himself."

"Interesting." Sherlock looked over at John. "Well?"

"Well? It's odd, yes." John nodded.

"You should take the job," Sherlock added. "He is paying you handsomely for this, I believe?"

"Ten thousand pounds per droid." John whistled at that.

"That's impressive," he murmured.

"Yes, by all means do take the job. But make sure to report to us anything that may seem a bit off about the entire enterprise. I will take your case, but you must provide me with more data. Am I understood?"

Violet smiled at him. "Yes, Mr. Holmes."


	13. Puppeteers and Clockwork Droids

**Part XII**

After a lengthy investigation of the train lines from Victoria Station to Battersea Park, Sherlock and John could not find anything other than that Andrew West's body had dropped at a point where the train was bound to sway as it switched tracks, and that there wasn't a lot of blood at the site where the body was found. Therefore, as previously conjectured, he couldn't have been killed by the train itself.

They visited Molly in the morgue to find more clues on West's corpse. John was pretty sure Molly had some sort of crush on Sherlock. Sherlock seemed to know about it – at best, he ignored it, and at worst he used it to get his way. Either way, Sherlock managed to gain access to West's corpse and found that yes, his head had been bashed in. He'd also been stabbed in the shoulder with some sort of narcotic, probably administered prior to his death. Judging by the chafe marks on his wrists, the man had also spent some time tied up. He'd even been whipped at one point, if the residual welts all over his buttocks were anything to go by. John at that point had become rather uncomfortable. Sherlock noted that there had been no signs of sexual assault.

"Recreational, consensual scolding," the Consulting Detective concluded with a smirk. John blushed.

"People _do_ that?"

"Of course people do that. Some people are willing to pay for it, too." Sherlock raised his magnifying goggles. "John, exactly how naïve are you about these things?"

"I… I thought they were scandalous things only confined to the world of the trashy romance novel?" John suggested, shrugging. "Harry loved those."

Sherlock snorted. "So you aren't aware that people actually do those sorts of things in real life?"

"How depraved must you be?"

"Ah, a perfect indicator of a childhood in the bourgeoisie." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That sterile morality, John, _how_ do you live with it?

"I dunno," John admitted, looking back at West's corpse. "So he was seeing a prostitute? I mean, I don't think Miss Hunter did this to him, and she didn't know where he'd been when he disappeared."

"She's innocent," Sherlock affirmed, watching John's expression flit from concerned to relieved. "These… injuries… appear to have been inflicted about an hour or so before death. If only we can get a hold of his personal belongings, figure out his last days before the disappearance…"

"Scotland Yard?" John suggested.

"Yes, Scotland Yard."

* * *

><p>A couple of things were unearthed at Scotland Yard. Apparently West had meant to surprise his fiancée with tickets to the theatre the night of his disappearance, but he never quite managed to make it to her house. The cab he had hired took him past Buckingham, and at an intersection two Palace guards had stepped up to the carriage and asked for West to come with them. He was never seen again after that.<p>

Sherlock seemed to have found some sort of lead, however, judging by the way he stayed up all night for the rest of the week, only pausing for quick naps in between when his body forced him to shut down. He didn't eat, he barely drank, and John worried for his health every hour.

Violet Hunter's case had been placed on the back burner. There was no space for it until she contacted them. Sherlock wasn't one to waste time when he had a case. John found himself taking up the responsibility of making sure the pantry and the icebox were constantly stashed with edibles, even if Sherlock rarely ate.

One particular afternoon two weeks after Violet's visit, John was at the store arguing with a clunky chip and PIN machine. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like an ordinary cash register. Except it also seemed to have a grudge against him.

"Card not recognised. Please try again," it told him in that smug woman's voice. John groaned, swiping the card in every direction possible. Every citizen carried an identification card bearing their name and Assignment; John had recently replaced his because of his Reassignment. The card, which rather resembled a giant dogtag, doubled as the access key into its holder's bank account. Embedded with a tiny chip and encrypted with nearly undetectable grooves – the same sort of encryption on Memory Keys – the card was authenticated after activation only by a four-digit personal identification number.

"Shut up," John growled after the machine denied his card for the umpteenth time. He had a bag of things to take back already! This was insufferable. "Shut up. You know what? Take it. Take –"

"John?"

John spun around to see Violet, looking at him curiously from her place in the growing queue behind him.

"Violet! Thank god you're here. Look, this machine won't cooperate with me; I think it's broken. Could you…?"

"You're supposed to swipe it this way," Violet smirked at him, walking over and swiping his card for him the proper way.

"When did that change?"

"A year ago."

"I didn't get the memo; I was in Alexandria." John sent a withering glare at the machine and hatefully punched in his number. "Cheers, Violet."

"I have to talk to Mr. Holmes," Violet hissed. "I'm at my wit's end."

* * *

><p>"The job hasn't personally threatened her yet, then. She's been able to get her shopping done, after all."<p>

"Yes, and apparently _no one_ thought to tell me that the protocol for using a chip and PIN machine had changed?" John demanded, emerging from the kitchen and flopping down into his usual chair. Sherlock was reposing on the couch, fumbling with a tin box. "What's that?"

"What, did you have trouble at the store?"

"Had a row with a chip and PIN machine," John replied.

"You had a row with a machine?" Sherlock looked over at him sharply. "I wasn't aware that they could converse with their customers now."

"No, it just sat there and I shouted abuse at it. What're you doing?"

"Seven-per-cent solution," Sherlock replied. "Looking for some brain stimu – John! Give that back."

"This is cocaine!" John snarled, looking at the contents of the swiped tin. "Sherlock, why –"

"I was bored."

"Bored!"

"Well, yes, until you told me that Miss Hunter was going to visit us again I had been undeniably bored."

"Sherlock, taking cocaine is only going to damage your brain."

"I can quit whenever I want to," sniffed the Consulting Detective. John rolled his eyes.

"Right, I'm going to put this somewhere where you'll never find it." The ex-Army Surgeon stashed it away into the belt by his side. "Miss Hunter will be here any moment; she has to finish her shopping. You need to make yourself look more presentable."

Sherlock, who was arrayed in a rather rumpled dark purple shirt, glowered at John as he released the leather garter that rolled up his sleeves and buttoned up his black vest. John smiled cheerily in response. The bell rang.

Moments later, Violet came upstairs with Toby scrambling after her. The M.A.T.I.N. had found it hard to get up the stairs, and John watched it scramble for its spot by the mantelpiece, sniffing at the stains in the rug rather eagerly.

"Away from the hearth," Sherlock snapped, waving his hand at Toby. Toby had just been nosing at a Persian slipper; he whined and backed away.

"You have to come with me. The entire place is absolutely suspicious," Violet said before she even took her seat in John's armchair. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"How so?" he asked.

"That Mr. Rucastle? He's an amateur Taxidermist."

* * *

><p>Lestrade straightened in his seat as he looked out at the sea of Reporters. In front of him was a microphone. All he could think of right now was exactly how much he hated press conferences.<p>

The cameras were already flashing madly behind them, sending out puffs of smoke everywhere. The Reporters were consulting with their Photographers and each other, swapping information. Rumours, probably.

Their world was a delicate balance between capitalism and socialism, with the government and the businesses splitting control of society between them. Assignments were made under the government, which the businesses then followed up on with according employment. For example, anyone Assigned as an Artist may work privately, for the government, or for a business. That much freedom was left.

But for the majority, there wasn't much choice. A Worker went to the first factory that would take him or her. And Lestrade, a Detective Inspector, had no choice but to join the Metropolitan Police. The only private eye was the Consulting Detective.

Either way, the government and the businesses were all run by the same people. Upper-class people.

Sally smiled at him as she took her seat next to him and organised her notes. She tapped the microphone for attention; the noise that blared out of the gramophone-like speakers situated throughout the room caused everyone else to sit to attention. Other microphones came out, for radio broadcast.

"Thank you," Sally muttered. "All right. A couple of weeks ago, two Propagandists disappeared. They were first noted missing at their jobs. Upon a visit to their houses we learnt that they had not returned home. In light of the Jefferson Hope case, we have tightened surveillance, especially on the Cab Drivers.

"The two Propagandists are named Ernest Toller and Henry Fowler. These two men have crafted several admirable posters, like "Loose Lips Sink Airships" and the very moving illustration of the late Jennifer Wilson's "Soldiers, Bear Your Arms" piece."

Lestrade watched the film projector at the back of the room. It was showing pictures of the two Propagandists, he knew, but he didn't feel inclined to look at the Reporters. As scheduled, Sally opened him to questions from the media, and Lestrade hoped that Sherlock wouldn't interrupt with more humiliating textograms again.

"Do you think, Inspector, that these disappearances were linked?"

"Inspector, how do you know that a Cab Driver is responsible?"

"Inspector Lestrade, do you know if they're still alive?"

On and on it went, until Lestrade's head hurt and all he wanted to do was get out of the conference room. He excused himself at the first opportunity and stormed out of the building, skirting by puddles in the roughly-paved streets and itching for a good cup of coffee.

"Ah, Greg!" Mycroft's voice was calling. Lestrade looked up, his mouth twitching upwards slightly. "Stressful press conference?"

"Yeah." Lestrade walked over.

"You seem intent on getting coffee. I'll come with you." Mycroft had been leaning on his strange umbrella. Lestrade wondered if he could still use it as a weapon. "Yes, this umbrella is still capable of shooting ricin pellets."

"How'd you –?"

"You were frowning at the tip and then at the trigger on the handle." Mycroft smiled genially, steering him into a nearby café. The Steam Tempered Rotationally Balanced Coffee Keeper (S.T.R.B.C.K.) machine behind the counter whirred pleasantly at them as they entered. "Two coffees please, one with two sugars and the other black," he instructed.

"How'd you know I'd like it black?" Lestrade asked, frowning as they took a seat in the back.

"You looked like you needed it." Mycroft grinned. Moments later the S.T.R.B.C.K. machine came rolling out to them with two cups, filling them right at the table. "Cheers." He swiped his card down the side of the machine, paying for the drinks.

"So, the budget?" Lestrade asked after a moment of silent sipping.

"Oh, that's confidential. I will say that I'm trying my hardest to resist their efforts to drag us into total war, though."

"What for?"

"Well, I don't like it when my things are rationed, and I can't stand to see more boys being sent to the front lines. Simple as that."

"What about peace talks?"

"France is pushing for peace, but you know how the French are. They're in a right bureaucratic mess themselves, what with their revolutions…"

Lestrade took a sip of his coffee. "It's strange, the division of labour around here," he suddenly noted. "Humans still function as Maids and Janitors and Waiters, but a machine can become a Barista…"

"We're trying to minimise the amount of menial-labour jobs; it's just going very slowly." Mycroft sniffed. "_Snail_-paced."

"I mean, we've got clockwork droids lighting streetlamps and cleaning chimneys. Why aren't they taking up other jobs?"

"Clockwork droids are delicate creatures," Mycroft reasoned, sipping his coffee thoughtfully. "They can only be programmed to do so much. If we give them too much of ourselves, then…"

"Then the lines become blurry." Lestrade nodded.

"I'm glad you follow."

Lestrade looked moodily at his cup. "I just hope there aren't more disappearances."

"I'm sure my brother can help somehow." Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Did you hear about the malfunctioning droids near Belgravia? Almost killed someone."

"Not my division," Lestrade groaned. "But I did hear about them. That's for the sods who work in Mechanics."

"Mm, I see." Mycroft blew lightly at his coffee. "Still, I find malfunctioning droids a bit suspicious in such an affluent neighbourhood as Belgravia. Wouldn't you think so?"

"That is slightly suspicious, yeah."

"No doubt my dear brother's already discovered something." Mycroft winked at Lestrade. "You might expect him to drop by for a warrant sooner or later."

"A search warrant?"

"What else?"

Lestrade could see the upper-class string-pulling, as usual. Mycroft treated everything like puppets and marionettes; he was a puppeteer of the first class, and Lestrade couldn't help but obey. He really had no choice otherwise.

Mycroft had given Sherlock a puzzle; now he would watch him dance.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes: <strong>The acronym for the coffee-bot was devised by the ever-awesome Shorlok. Thanks a bunch!


	14. The Adventure of the Copper Beeches

**Part XIII**

"Mr. Rucastle has allowed me to go about my business as usual, but I am expected to reside at his house whenever I am working on the droids. The deadline is Friday, the night of the Princess's debutante ball."

"Yes, the masquerade. Papers won't stop blabbing about it," Sherlock drawled. "What next?"

"He has a family. The wife is very ill all the time; she is constantly in her room sleeping when I check in on her. Very nice woman, but in a very delicate state. She has a son who likes to take apart mechanical animals while they are still functional – I have entrusted Toby to my friend Mr. Sherman, though, so he is in good hands most of the time. I shall have to take him back after this."

"Did the son attempt to take Toby apart?"

"No, but I saw him dissecting clockwork mice the afternoon I moved in."

"Moved in!" John exclaimed in dismay. Violet nodded sadly.

"What can I say? He told me to set up at least a temporary room because working on the droids with such a deadline would require the burning of midnight oil. I can see the logic, but it unsettles me as well. The place is eerily quiet at night."

"How so?"

"Well, it is supposed to be a bed and breakfast –"

At that, Sherlock nearly leapt out of his seat, nearly startling Toby. "My cogs, Miss Hunter! How could you have failed to tell us that? Why, the nature of the place being a bed and breakfast should have been an important clue! Who is the Innkeeper of the family?"

"Mr. Rucastle, but –"

"What are the Assignments of the other family members who are of age?"

"Well, Mr. Rucastle was a widower at one point and he had a daughter from his first marriage named Alice, a Teacher who left for America, apparently… and his first wife used to be a Worker before the factory soot poisoned her lungs. Or so he says. The new wife also used to work at a factory."

"And why did the daughter leave for America?"

"Well, the new Mrs. Rucastle is rather young, and I suppose his daughter mustn't be more than twenty years old, so…"

"Who else is in the house?"

"Ah, that's the part I was going to tell you!" Violet leaned forward conspiratorially. "I was looking in the guest book yesterday, and I saw the names of two men who are supposed to be missing in there. Have you heard of Ernest Toller and Henry Fowler?"

John sat up straighter. Sherlock nodded silently, a gesture for her to go on. Violet tilted her head at them, as if expecting them to jump to the conclusion.

"You're saying, then, that those were the names in the guest book?" John asked after a moment.

"The very same."

"Well, then!" Sherlock nodded. "What about the Taxidermist thing? You said he was an amateur Taxidermist. How could you tell?"

"Why, he keeps a stuffed bull mastiff by the fireplace and a stuffed black swan in the window! They're very wonderfully done, too. Almost alive. And that's what really scares me."

"That they're stuffed?"

"No, Mr. Watson. See, Mr. Rucastle insists that I keep my complexion clear. You know the job – oil and dirt everywhere, pimples appear if I'm not careful – well, Mr. Rucastle insists that I wash my face before and after work, and myself whenever possible – and he provides me with the soap and everything. He does the same for my hair, but then I guard my hair quite jealously so he doesn't worry about that as much. I'm just very concerned about his concern."

"All right. Now, what about the house? You said the place was a bed and breakfast. Are there any other temporary tenants?"

"Oddly enough, no."

John raised both eyebrows. "No customers?"

"Always vacant, no one else signed in except Messrs Fowler and Toller. Mr. Rucastle doesn't seem to mind, though. He says they stay on the fourth floor and keep to themselves, and that I should leave them alone and not bother with any socialising attempts."

"How odd. Aren't Fowler and Toller a set of very sociable Propagandists?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, if they're sociable at all they really do that quietly. I haven't heard from the fourth floor ever, yet Mr. Rucastle says that Mr. Fowler likes his tea and Mr. Toller likes his drink. He keeps the door that leads to the stairs going up to the fourth floor locked at all times; I've seen the key."

"And have you endeavoured to obtain access?"

"No."

"Well, then." Sherlock smiled in satisfaction. "I'm sure that once we've managed to uncover the secret on the fourth floor with Messrs Fowler and Toller we will have the complete picture in our hands. John, let us pack."

"What for?" John asked, getting up.

"We're going to pay Mr. Rucastle a visit."

* * *

><p>"Copper Beeches Bed and Breakfast," John murmured, reading the sign. "This is the place."<p>

"Right." Sherlock was inspecting the door closely. He hefted his valise from hand to hand and looked back at his Protector. "Remember the names, John."

"Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce, Mechanics." John fingered the identification cards. They were real identification cards that Mycroft had obtained for Sherlock after a substantial amount of cajoling and cake. Sherlock was probably already devising several revenge plans in his head. "How do I look?"

"Like you've walked out of a shipyard accident." Sherlock smirked. "In other words, perfect."

The two of them had managed to knock together a set of Mechanic work outfits in the time between Violet returning to Copper Beeches and their arrival. It didn't take much, though, just some coarser clothing, giant protective goggles, and more brass. John had even found a spanner for his utility belt.

Sherlock rang the bell, and moments later Jephro Rucastle was answering it with a jovial grin and plenty of chins.

"Come in, come in!" He grinned, letting them step over the threshold and taking their cases. "You must be Miss Hunter's Mechanic friends."

"The very same," Sherlock replied. Gone was the cold and calculating Consulting Detective; John was looking at a bright-eyed and bouncing young Mechanic. He could say that he was awed, but that would be an understatement. "Basil Rathbone, sir, at your service!"

"And I'm… uh, Nigel Bruce." John tried his best to act. He must have made poor Nigel sound very nervous. Oh well.

"We were wondering how much it costs for two rooms?" continued Sherlock smoothly. "For a couple of nights, while we help Miss Hunter with her work?"

"Oh, only five and sixpence a night, with breakfasts," Mr. Rucastle replied. "Is that all right with you boys?"

"Splendid!" John exclaimed, even if he felt less than that. Five and sixpence a night was suspicious – who charged _that _cheaply these days? He looked around him at the hall, the parlour. Sure enough, the hats and coats of two other men were hanging on metal hooks. In the window of the parlour there sat a giant stuffed swan, its black feathers sleek in the lamplight and firelight. The sleeping mastiff by the fire looked just as alive and just as frightening.

"I'm surprised, though," continued Sherlock as Mr. Rucastle hefted the cases up the stairs with them in tow. "With such a lovely situation and such abominably low rates, why aren't you swamped with potential clients?"

"Oh, I do get a bit picky and choosy," Mr. Rucastle replied vaguely. Sherlock looked at John pointedly. John shrugged.

They passed the second floor, which were the private quarters for the family. John could hear a little boy screaming at the top of his lungs.

"He'd just wet his bed," Sherlock whispered as they lagged behind to let Mr. Rucastle out of earshot.

"Don't little children do that often?"

"In conjunction with cruelty towards animals, mechanic or otherwise? Generally, John, that is a good indicator of psychopathy."

"Funny, Sergeant Donovan –"

"Scotland Yard has been lacking in its research department since I left. I'm not a psychopath; I'm a high-functioning sociopath."

"Sociopaths don't cuddle."

Sherlock sent John a withering glare. John grinned cheekily. Mr. Rucastle turned back to ask them if they were having any troubles. John pretended to be extremely interested in the painting hanging on the second floor landing.

"Oh, that. That's a picture done by my daughter Alice. She always was a sensitive one, I think. It's a self-portrait."

John tilted his head. Was it just him or did Alice Rucastle look a lot like Violet Hunter?

Their rooms were on the same floor as Violet's – namely, the third. The staircase ended there, but as previously indicated there was a locked door that led to the staircase leading up to the fourth floor. John and Sherlock had rooms connected with a bathroom. The pipes seemed to echo, though, so discussing matters in there wasn't an option.

Violet's room, however, was connected to a studio that housed the droids. Sherlock and John entered with their toolkits, took their seats, and watched her screw in a couple more bolts. She looked up, wiping away some extra grease from her brow, and smiled at them.

"I see you've made it," she said.

"Very astute observation, Miss Hunter." Sherlock's lips curled into a half-smile. "Now tell me, when is the next available opportunity for us to attempt to break into the fourth floor?"

* * *

><p>The opportunity came soon enough. Mr. Rucastle seemed to leave them well enough alone, so after dinner Sherlock and John took the chance and snuck over to the locked door with one of Violet's hairpins. Picking the lock was easy enough; the door swung inwards noiselessly.<p>

"Do you have the torch?" Sherlock whispered. John reached for his belt and drew out the torch. Sherlock turned it on hesitantly as they ascended the rickety wooden stairs.

This side of the house was much more unkempt than the rest. The floorboards creaked, the windows were cracking, and little spots of mould and mildew dotted the walls and ceiling. As they moved higher, the air grew colder, more petrifying. It was like walking into a morgue.

The door at the top of the staircase was also locked. Sherlock reached out to pick that lock as well, when –

"Sh!" John hissed. "Footsteps!"

The sound of Mr. Rucastle's footsteps thundered from below. Sherlock looked back at John. "Did we close the door?"

"Yes," John whispered.

"Do you think Violet can lie for us?"

"Hopefully."

They waited, their breath fogging the air before them. Sherlock listened to the exchange on the floor below. Violet was saying that "Basil and Nigel had gone to get more axle grease", while Mr. Rucastle insisted he didn't see them leave. The situation was, to say the least, delicate.

"We need to back up her alibi," Sherlock whispered, looking around them. He spotted the window at the fourth floor landing. "The window!"

"What?" John demanded. Sherlock lifted a finger to his lips.

"Follow me." The Consulting Detective opened the window and crawled out. The fourth floor was almost like a tower; the rest of the house only went for three floors. The roof was therefore not too far from where they were. Sherlock clambered out onto the roof and gestured for John to follow. John did so, closing the window behind them.

Outside, on the rooftop the London night sky shone with the few stars that could still be seen through the smog. John looked up with a sigh. "That's one thing I miss about Alexandria," he said after a moment. "When you're out there in the desert, with barely any smoke in the air, you can see a river of stars every night. Streams of light, poking through the darkness. It's beautiful."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Dull," he remarked, even if he thought that in the most sentimental of ways, the stars were indeed quite lovely.

"What do you mean, dull? Aren't they wonderful and mysterious? I mean sometimes it's so hard to remember that we go 'round the Sun instead of the other way around –"

"We do?" Sherlock frowned.

John frowned back. "What – oh, wait. You don't mean to tell me that you don't know that?"

"It's not important!"

"It's common knowledge! The only people who don't believe it are the Catholic Church, and they're still a couple decades behind – Sherlock, this is primary school stuff, how?"

"If I ever did learn that, I've probably deleted it."

"Deleted it!"

Sherlock moved closer to John, putting their faces almost an inch apart. "Listen," he growled, tapping at his head. "This is my Memory Key. It can only store so much information on it at a time, so I make sure to fill mine with things that are useful. Really useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish! That's what makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters, don't you see?"

"But it's the Copernican system!"

"Oh,_ hell_, John, what does that matter? So we go 'round the sun. If we went 'round the moon or 'round and 'round the garden like a teddy bear it wouldn't make any difference. All that matters to me is the work, and I do believe we're in the middle of it _right now_ so we need to get off this roof before someone bothers to look up and find us here."

John had forgotten for a moment that they were having an argument about astronomy on the rooftop of a suspicious bed and breakfast. The two of them scrambled to the edge of the roof and looked around. The only safe route onto the ground was the fire escape built into the side of the building, descending onto the pavement in front of the house.

"Careful," Sherlock murmured, before slinking down the ladder like a cat. John followed as quietly as he could.

"So now we pull the lever again?" he asked as soon as they were in front of the house once more.

"No, we need to get axle grease." Sherlock smirked. "Not too much, say they ran out or something. We need to back up Miss Hunter's alibi, after all."

John nodded. "Right, then. Lead the way."


	15. Breakfast at Rucastle's

**Part XIV**

Sherlock and John returned to Copper Beeches in ten minutes, carrying a tub of axle grease – or rather, John was carrying the tub of axle grease and Sherlock was walking behind him, seemingly lost in thought.

Mr. Rucastle answered the door cheerily enough. "Oh, so you two _were _out to get axle grease!" he exclaimed jovially, although a part of John suspected that he suspected them. "I was a bit concerned when I went to check on Miss Hunter and found the two of you missing!" There definitely was a suspicious glint in his eyes, or perhaps that was a trick of the light on his glasses.

"Many of the stores we visited had run out; this was the most we could find," panted John. "Sorry for leaving on such short notice."

"Mm, I see. It's fine, it's fine." Mr. Rucastle let them in; Sherlock took the grease from John and John rubbed his metallic left shoulder gingerly. "Although… may I clarify something with you boys?"

"By all means, sir," Sherlock replied, grinning.

"Well, do you see the dog by the hearth?"

"Certainly, sir."

"His name is Carlo. Once upon a time he had been alive, but…" a shadow snuck over the Innkeeper's face as he shrugged. "He's now a M.A.T.I.N., and I set him on _curious cats who try to sneak onto the fourth floor_."

A chill shot up John's spine.

"So please," continued Mr. Rucastle pleasantly, as if he hadn't threatened them with death at the hands of a mechanical dog, "do yourselves a favour and don't go up there. You young men have plenty of time to face your memories. Curiosity shouldn't be killing kittens."

John and Sherlock quickly bid him goodnight and ascended the stairs with their purchase, ensconcing themselves in the studio with Violet. She was tinkering with something small at her desk; the oil in the lamp was burning low. The droids, three enshrouded figures, stood in the corner. Sherlock set down the grease and walked over to the window; John took a seat on a nearby crate, sighing.

"Another malfunctioning droid," Sherlock noted from the window. John walked over to see a lamp-lighting droid spin in confused circles around a lamppost across the street.

"The navigation's been removed," Violet said without looking up.

John frowned at her. "You didn't see –"

"She took it," Sherlock replied quickly. John's eyes went wide.

"Why?"

Violet gestured him over. John walked over to the desk to see her tinkering with a tiny navigation chip. The bodies of two clockwork mice lay on the workspace in front of her.

"I'm trying to fix these poor mice; I've been working on them since I rescued them from the boy," Violet whispered. John smiled sadly.

"What about the other parts, though?" Sherlock asked suddenly. "For the droids, I mean? You pilfer parts for your side project, but does Mr. Rucastle have a licence to build these?"

"Surprisingly enough, yes. He wouldn't say who gave it to him or where the parts come from, but their quality is passable and they're rather easy to work with. Strangely no one has insisted he move the droids to a warehouse for storage and inspection, though."

"That suggests that the contract may be a bit more corrupt. Illegal, even." Sherlock's brows furrowed. "But then again, I'm pretty sure these droids are meant to be used for shady business. But what?" He strode to the corner and flung off the covers from the first droid, marvelling at Violet's craftsmanship. "This is a work of art," he murmured.

"That's a rare thing, hearing a compliment from Sherlock Holmes," John whispered to Violet. "Better treasure it." She giggled.

Sherlock glowered at him. "Look at it. The attention to detail, the minutiae – this droid will function seamlessly, even more seamlessly than your shoulder."

John winced slightly. His shoulder worked almost naturally now, unless he forgot the weekly oiling. Then it creaked to the high heavens and annoyed the hell out of him. He wandered over to the droids, looking at the glass faces and metal hands.

Sherlock tapped at the chest cavity. "Hollow?" he asked.

"The generator will be in the heart's place," Violet breathed, flushing with pleasure at them complimenting her work. "Mr. Rucastle specifically wanted a compartment below the heart; with wires running from it along the arm and a pressure switch in the hand that would correspond to another near the eyes –"

"A mask," Sherlock murmured.

"What?" John asked.

"The hand touches the mask at the masquerade, at midnight, triggering a reaction that would… oh dear. When can we get a good look at Mr. Rucastle and his wife with bared wrists? Time is running out; the ball is on Friday!"

"The kitchen, at breakfast-time. They make breakfast."

"That'll do." Sherlock straightened up, paying no attention to John and Violet's concerned and confused looks. "John, you look like you're going to fall asleep on your feet. Let's go."

John found himself in bed moments later. Sherlock pulled over the divan from the corner and spread out next to John's bed in his dressing gown and a nightshirt. John adjusted his nightcap, yawning lightly.

"What did you mean, look at their wrists?" He asked blearily, snuggling into the duvet. Sherlock had a light throw over his midsection; he turned on his side to look at John with a raised eyebrow. Previously he had been groping around for his pipe and tobacco; John made a mental note to hide them and replace them with nicotine patches.

"His left wrist," Sherlock said after a moment. "When I confronted Hope last month or so, he showed me something on his wrist."

"A mark of some sort of secret society?" John asked.

"Exactly." Sherlock looked up at the ceiling. "The symbol of the Anarchists, the Radicals who take action."

"What does it look like?" John asked, yawning again.

"You'll see tomorrow, if we're lucky. Go to sleep, John."

John was all too happy to comply.

* * *

><p>Violet, Sherlock, and John descended for breakfast the next morning to see Mrs. Rucastle sitting at the kitchen table with a copy of the newspaper, her hair in disarray and her face drawn. Mr. Rucastle was cheerily washing the dishes in the sink, the giant cuff-watch he usually wore sitting on the counter next to them. John took a seat near Mrs. Rucastle, getting a good look at her left wrist. There was a series of raised and darkened scar tissue from a brand, but he couldn't tell from that angle. Sherlock leaned over his shoulder, ostensibly to examine the headlines.<p>

"Did you see it?" he whispered into John's ear. John shivered involuntarily but nodded all the same. "It's in the shape of a burning matchstick, right?"

"I couldn't tell," John murmured. Sherlock straightened up and walked over to Mr. Rucastle.

"Nice watch," he told the Innkeeper. Mr. Rucastle looked around, eyes alarmed for a second before crinkling into a smile.

"Mm, yes! Very, isn't it? A Breitling. Family heirloom, actually!"

"A Breitling?" echoed John, feigning interest. Mr. Rucastle took the watch and walked over to show it to John. John looked from the watch over to the left wrist. Sure enough, the dark puckered skin along the wrist was in the shape of a burning matchstick. Mr. Rucastle looked down and quickly covered his wrist with the watch. John smiled.

"How much was it worth?" Sherlock asked calmly.

"Oh, I have no idea now; it's been in the family for a half a century!" Mr. Rucastle grinned. "Can I tempt you with some porridge?"

"Do you have sugar?" Sherlock asked, as John plucked a peach from the bowl. Violet was sitting next to him, pensively eating her food and listening in on everything.

"Oh, I'm afraid we've just ran out," Mrs. Rucastle said, still not looking up from her paper. "Jephro, you should pick up some sugar this afternoon."

"I'll do it when I get around to it," Mr. Rucastle dismissed. "In the meantime I suppose you could put honey and peaches into the porridge?"

"That would work," Sherlock replied, taking their food. He spooned some up and gave it an experimental sniff.

John looked over to the pantry. "You have a lot of peaches and almonds," he noted frankly.

"What can I say? I love them," Mr. Rucastle replied, chortling. "I get the peaches in season, pit them, preserve them when winter comes. And almonds! My dear Helen makes the best almond nougat whenever she's feeling fit enough to cook; I think they'd rather Misassigned her when they sent her to the Factory."

"Shame," John replied. "Usually they get it right."

"Usually," agreed Mrs. Rucastle, but there seemed to be no agreement in her expression. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but continued to put peach slices into his porridge.

"In any case," continued Mr. Rucastle, "the missus and I will be taking our son to Regent's Park this afternoon. I trust that you three will be working?"

"Obviously," Violet deadpanned.

"Excellent!" Mr. Rucastle smiled warmly. "I have never seen such hard workers as you three. Truly a marvel."

After breakfast, Sherlock and John quickly excused themselves for work. John asked Violet if she was coming along; she said she would be upstairs in five minutes. The pair ran upstairs to the studio. Sherlock paced the ground in front of the window, wringing his hands like a widow along the walk.

"You saw the mark?" he asked after a moment.

John nodded. He was sitting at the desk, head propped on a hand. "He always wears that cuff-watch, though. Is it because he's hiding the mark? So it must be the Anarchist symbol you were talking about, right?"

"Yes, yes." Sherlock nodded. "I saw it on Hope's wrist, too."

The door to the studio slammed open and Violet Hunter entered. John gave up his seat for the crate. She plopped down, reached over, and pulled off the coverings of the droids again.

"They're almost done," she said after a moment. "I'm dreading the moment they're done, though. I don't know what he's using it for, but you seem to think it's for something bad."

"Mr. Rucastle and his wife are Anarchists," Sherlock muttered. Violet's eyes went wide. "She doesn't seem to be as complicit in this plan as he is, though, so I suspect the entire thing falls on his shoulders. He plans to send three clockwork droids to the masquerade on Friday, and they will look like Ernest Toller, Henry Fowler, and yourself."

"…Myself?" squeaked Violet, eyes widening in horror. "You don't mean to say that –"

"That he will kill you after the job is done, skin you, and stitch you onto your own droid? Yes. I suspected as much since you told me the feminine droid had to look like yourself and that he has actually put the hide of an actual dog over his M.A.T.I.N. downstairs. I need only prove myself, and the proof sits right above our heads."

"The fourth floor. He said Fowler and Toller are on the fourth floor."

"Yes." Sherlock nodded. "What I don't understand is… why you? I mean, he… oh."

"What?" John asked, alarmed.

"The painting. The self-portrait." Sherlock grabbed John's arms. "He doesn't want to kill Violet because she's Violet, he wants to kill her because she looks like his daughter Alice. Somehow, I think his daughter hasn't left Britain at all."

* * *

><p>Alice Fowler sat in her parlour, dressed in black from head to toe. The flowers in her vases were wilting. She hadn't reported to the school in ages – they understood; there were simply too many police procedurals for her and she was still coping with the disappearance and very likely death of her husband – and she barely ate, drank, or slept. The only thing she took any form of pleasure in was art.<p>

She took the airbrush and blew, splattering dark and sombre paint onto the canvas. After a moment, she shook her head and set the brush aside. No sooner had she done so did there come a knock at the door.

Alice walked over to answer the door, expecting to see police. For a moment, she stared at the tall, dark-haired man and the shorter, chestnut-haired woman on her doorstep. The woman looked eerily like her.

"Mrs. Fowler, I believe?" the man asked. "Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective."

"Are you here to investigate Henry's disappearance?"

"Actually, I believe I have found him." Sherlock Holmes reached up and took off his goggles. "However, I require your company. You must return with me to your father's house."

"What for? The last time I saw him he told me I wasn't his daughter," Alice growled.

"You will find your husband there," Sherlock assured.

At the same time, but on the other side of London, Lestrade looked up from his work to hear an insistent knocking at the door. "Enter," he called. In stepped John Watson.

"Ah, this is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, right?" John asked. He was dressed, oddly enough, like a Mechanic. Lestrade frowned.

"What did Sherlock do this time?" he asked.

"I have no idea, but he needs a search warrant for the Copper Beeches Bed and Breakfast at 13 Great George Street."


	16. A Clockwork Conspiracy

**Part XV**

"What's the charge?" Lestrade asked.

"Murder. Refined, cold-blooded, deliberate murder." Sherlock strode right up the stairs, with John following suit. Lestrade groaned. Count on Sherlock Holmes to make things dramatic.

"You saw the guestbook, right?" John asked as the party made their way up to the third floor, towards the door landing. "The names of the missing Propagandists are on there."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "So they were last here?"

"They haven't left," Sherlock muttered as Alice Fowler handed him a key. "Good job keeping this," he added, unlocking the door to the fourth floor.

They were immediately accosted with the pungent smell of formaldehyde. "As expected," Sherlock continued, advancing up the gloomy stairs. "Rucastle isn't expected back until six, I believe?"

"Hopefully," John muttered. They trooped up to the fourth floor landing, and Sherlock opened the door.

Two brass beds sat in the centre of the room. There was no sign of any body in either of them.

"Someone's gone and moved the bodies," Sherlock murmured. "No doubt removed the rest of the evidence up here. Careful. He must have gotten in through the window on the landing; John and I had went that way before –"

"Aha!" There came a sudden shout from underneath the bed, and moments later Jephro Rucastle had sprung from his hiding spot like a jack-in-the-box. Violet Hunter squeaked in fright and clung onto Alice Fowler, who had gone very pale. John reached for his revolver.

"You villain!" Sherlock snapped, stepping up towards Mr. Rucastle. "Where are the bodies?"

"You're not going to find them in here anymore!" Mr. Rucastle cackled. "And now I've found out the truth! So you and your partner were in here last night? I warned you, Mr. Rathbone, that –"

"Rathbone?" Lestrade demanded.

"I warned you, Mr. Rathbone, that any more curiosity on your part would only get you killed!"

And suddenly, there came the low sound of growling from downstairs. Lestrade looked from Sherlock to Mr. Rucastle, his brows clouded with confusion.

"What the bloody hell is going on around here?" He demanded.

The growling turned into mad barking, a barking that grew louder and louder as the M.A.T.I.N. from downstairs came thundering up the stairs. John immediately drew himself in front of Sherlock, his revolver at the ready. Lestrade positioned himself in front of Alice; Violet grabbed the spanner from her belt, her arms shaking.

Carlo the mechanic mastiff snarled as it pounced into the room, its mechanical eyes scanning the area for its target. It locked onto Sherlock and leapt. John fired several shots, but the M.A.T.I.N. did not take notice. It seized Sherlock's arm, teeth digging in like knives. Sherlock's eyes screwed up in pain.

John wasn't sure what made him do it, but one moment he was firing his last bullet at the mechanical mastiff and the next he was on it, pulling at the creature's hide in rage, tearing apart the stitches until the machinery was revealed. Lestrade had sent Violet and Alice back downstairs; Mr. Rucastle was backing towards the door. John reached for the spanner in his belt and started unscrewing the bolts that held Carlo together.

"John!" Sherlock screamed. Blood was trickling madly down his arm. John whacked at the M.A.T.I.N. in anger, causing the machine to release his charge's arm. Sherlock stumbled away, clutching his arm. The creature set upon John, who garrotted it with the bedspread and continued to unfasten the screws.

The generator was either in the head or the heart…

The M.A.T.I.N. started ripping the bedspread. Sherlock wound his arm in the cloth from the nearby pillowcase and started helping John dismantle the dog, his fingers fumbling and unsure. John looked up at his charge, mouthing an apology. Sherlock shrugged, smiled, and continued to work.

Carlo broke free and tried to get to Sherlock again, but John was quicker, pulling Sherlock out of the room and down the stairs. The dog followed them, now unable to bark and growl because they had accidentally removed the voice-box.

The door to Violet's studio was open. Lestrade had Mr. Rucastle handcuffed at the desk; Violet, Alice, and the droids were nowhere to be seen.

Sherlock took one look at Mr. Rucastle and dove towards him, ducking behind the fat man. The M.A.T.I.N. similarly pounced, but its trajectory was cut short by its collision with its master.

"Help!" screamed Mr. Rucastle, struggling to free his hands as his dog started attacking him.

"M.A.T.I.N.s have a very strong sense of smell," Sherlock panted at John. "My proximity to Rucastle confused the hound, who attacked Rucastle thinking him to be me."

Lestrade grabbed his revolver and fired several shots at the machine at that point, effectively shattering the generator. Mr. Rucastle whined in pain. Sherlock rounded on him, eyes flashing as he clutched his bleeding forearm.

"The bodies. Where are they?" he demanded.

Rucastle shook his head.

"You can tell me nicely, or I can hurt you," Sherlock growled, and for a moment John could believe his sociopath self-diagnosis. "Where. Are. The. Bodies?"

"Th-th-the wine c-cellar!" Mr. Rucastle whimpered, eyes widening at Sherlock's expression. For a moment, John believed in a wrathful Watchmaker.

They all traipsed down to the ground floor, where Mr. Rucastle feebly pointed at the kitchen door and promptly collapsed. Alice reappeared from the second floor landing and dragged her father into the parlour. Sherlock, John, and Lestrade headed into the kitchen.

Sherlock immediately started tapping at the cupboards and walls, instructing John to tap at the floor and listen for hollow sounds. However, it was Lestrade who found the mark of the burning matchstick carved into the wood in the back of the pantry, behind the pile of peaches. John pressed it, and the shelf swung inwards, with steps leading into darkness.

John took out the torch and led the way.

* * *

><p>The cellar was dark and musty, and the shining bottles of wine all along it suggested illegal bootlegging. "These certainly don't seem to have been imported with duties," Lestrade whistled. The corks on the bottles all had the mark of the Anarchists.<p>

"They must be quite the party," snickered John. As he shone the light onto the bodies in the middle of the room, however, his smile faltered.

There lay the well-preserved remains of Mr. Ernest Toller and Mr. Henry Fowler. Sherlock bent down and gingerly pressed at their skin.

"Loose," he whispered. "They're not very securely stuffed. But that's obvious; they weren't meant to be stuffed; they were meant to be sewn onto the droids –"

"The droids!" exclaimed Lestrade.

"Yes, the droids on the third floor. Now, let me see. He must have poisoned them with something that won't overly affect their outward appearance, so it couldn't have been something corrosive or… ah. The food. Yes. He had a ton of peaches and almonds; he must have gotten the cyanide from them. That'd also explain the lack of sugar, because sugar is a known component of cyanide antidotes – ah, this is so _obvious_!"

"What – what are you on about?" Lestrade demanded. "What's going on?"

Sherlock looked around them, ostensibly searching for clues. "Fowler and Toller take two rooms, intending to stay only overnight. Their bags are there by their side." He pointed. "This establishment is cheap and well-situated; very hard to miss on a late night for a weary traveller. Rucastle takes them in, makes them comfortable, and slips cyanide into their drinks. Fowler has tea, and Toller…"

"Doesn't hydrogen cyanide form a toxic gas when combined with alcohol?" John asked. "Respiratory failure, death almost instant?"

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Exactly! Toller must have been the first to go if the cyanide was in his bottle – possibly one of the wine coolers in this very cellar – and then Fowler got a double dose from the gas escaping the bottle and the bit of cyanide in his tea!"

"All right, but why were they killed? I mean, other than being Propagandists. Why were they killed so they could be sewn onto droids? What's all that about?" Lestrade demanded.

Sherlock was already searching through the cellar. He straightened up suddenly, and gestured for John to shine the torch onto a crate. The words on the side read "DYNAMITE" in bold letters. Lestrade's eyes bugged.

"Bloody hell!" he hissed.

"These, too," Sherlock added, picking up three envelopes and flashing them through the beam of light. "Well now! I love it when the puzzle pieces fall together perfectly." He clapped his hands with glee, as if he had just received a Christmas present instead of a box of dynamite. John shook his head, smiling. "As indicated by the invitations, Mr. and Mrs. Fowler have been invited to the Princess's Debutante Ball this very Friday. Same goes for Mr. Toller. Rucastle intended to create clockwork droids of the Fowlers and Mr. Toller in order to send them to the ball in the stead of the actual people. When the clock strikes midnight, everyone is required to remove their masks. The droids, which have been designed and built with great care, are wired to detonate the dynamite that will be placed into their chests."

"All right, so where are the droids?"

"We're about to destroy them," Violet's voice came from upstairs. Sherlock was immediately at her side.

"No, don't do that, Miss Hunter," he insisted. "These droids are a work of mechanical artistry, even if they were originally intended for a sinister purpose. Now that that purpose is gone, there is no reason why we should get rid of them."

"But where would I keep them?"

"I could always have one at Baker Street," Sherlock mused thoughtfully. "And we can send the other two to my brother. He might be able to put them to good use."

"I'd like to take a look," Lestrade added, smiling at Violet hopefully. "If Sherlock here says they're works of art, I must believe they're quite something."

She blushed, but led the way out of the cellar.

* * *

><p>"The end of another case," John sighed later that evening. "Another Anarchist plan foiled. You must feel so accomplished."<p>

"You're developing a taste for sarcasm," Sherlock noted.

"No, really."

Sherlock laughed a rich rolling laugh that made John a bit warmer on the inside just from hearing it. It was like listening to some exotic cat hiding in a cello. John soon found himself smiling and laughing in response, watching the flames in the fireplace flicker across his charge's face.

"I'm sorry," he said after a moment. Sherlock immediately sobered up.

"What do you mean?"

"You got hurt. That dog, Carlo, hurt you."

"It's fine," Sherlock replied calmly. "'Tis merely a flesh wound."

John rolled his eyes. "You nearly had your arm bitten off."

"And you're a very good doctor." Sherlock held up his bandaged arm. "It'll be fine. I'll be fine. I should thank you."

"I shouldn't have let you get hurt in the first place. It's my Assignment."

"That M.A.T.I.N. was programmed to come after my scent once it was activated. Either way it would have gotten to me. Better just me than both me and you."

John opened his mouth to protest, but the look on Sherlock's face told him it'd be a better idea to shut his trap and accept it.

"All right. All right, then," he muttered. "Did you ever get an explanation for the rest?"

"The rest?" echoed Sherlock.

"You know, why Mr. Rucastle decided to kill Violet instead of Alice. I'm assuming it's to do with Henry Fowler?"

"Precisely. Fowler is a Propagandist, practically the sworn enemy of any self-respecting Anarchist. According to certain archives –"

"You broke into Mycroft's database again."

"Why not? I deserved it after all of that kowtowing I had to do to get us those false identities." Sherlock crossed his arms. "Anyway, according to those archives, Rucastle's first wife died in a factory accident at a munitions factory."

"So that's the thing that turned him against the state," John agreed. "But you said that'd only make him a Radical."

"He married a woman who had spent most of her youth planting bombs and planning assassinations of pro-war Politicians while she wasn't working at her factory," Sherlock continued. "Helen Stoner, the notorious Hellfire Helen. Remember?"

"Oh, she was quite the urban legend," snickered John. "Mum used to threaten Harry with her if she didn't eat her vegetables."

"So when a Radical remarries an Anarchist and the first thing they find out is that the daughter of the first marriage is being courted by a man so besotted with the state that he holds the Propagandist Assignment –"

"Alice eloped with Henry." John whistled.

"Exactly. The invitations to the masquerade were duly intercepted, and Rucastle started devising a revenge plan that would take out his hated son-in-law as well as assassinating two well-known Propagandists in one stroke, not to mention killing several more people later down the line with the wired droids."

They looked over at the clockwork droid sitting motionless in the corner. It was the tall and slender one that had been meant for Henry Fowler. The intricate clockwork shone in the firelight, like the glass skull recently returned to its place of honour on the mantelpiece.

Sherlock got up, fetched his skull, and started winding it up. The music began to play, filling the air with its haunting melody. John watched the gears, captivated. He looked up after a moment to see Sherlock, whose eyes were full of so many hidden emotions that they were practically unreadable.

"You should go sleep, John," the Consulting Detective said after a moment. John nodded, getting up and stretching his arms. His metallic left shoulder creaked slightly. He leaned forward, patted Sherlock on the shoulder, and stumped upstairs to bed.

Hours later, he fell asleep listening to the music box tinkling away downstairs.


	17. The Royal Invitation

**Notes:** Thank you so much for the feedback thus far! I'm glad people are enjoying this.

* * *

><p><strong>Part XVI<strong>

It was a pleasant afternoon, with a mild breeze and only a light intermittent shower that budged the soot and grime clinging to the buildings in the industrial district of London. A whistle blew in the factories, signalling the Workers to lunch break. Fifteen minutes of respite, then back to work. The demands of an industrialised nation like theirs never ceased.

Across town, in a more pleasant locale, Molly Hooper retrieved a mug of coffee from a S.T.R.B.C.K. machine and swiped her card, smiling at it as it rolled away. It was a beautiful afternoon in this part of London; the wind was rustling the trees in the park across the street, the blossoms wafting lightly to the ground like tiny dancers. Carriages drawn by mechanical horses clopped to and fro, and the upper echelon of society drove by in their automobiles.

"Pleasant, isn't it?" A man asked. Molly turned to see him; he was just a head taller than her with a charming smile and slicked-back dark hair. His eyes were black – a very deep, penetrating black.

"Oh, yes, quite." Molly smiled hesitantly. "Who are you?"

"That's always an interesting question, isn't it?" The man took a seat across from her and fetched himself a coffee from the S.T.R.B.C.K. machine. Molly noted that his clothes looked extremely expensive. "I'm Jim, a Teacher."

"Which school?"

"A small one – you wouldn't know of it. But it's lovely, really lovely." He grinned. Molly smiled back.

"I'm Molly Hooper. Pathologist at Bart's."

"Pleased to meet you." Jim smiled kindly at her, and Molly felt a warm happy feeling bubble in the pit of her stomach. Had she been looking closer, though, she would have noticed that the smile didn't reach his eyes.

* * *

><p>When he left Sherlock at Baker Street in the morning to visit Mary, John had hoped that in the couple of hours he took to conduct the visit Sherlock would not get himself into trouble. His arm was on the mend, and the weekend was rapidly approaching. Another injury without John nearby was just screaming for disaster.<p>

Unfortunately, he had barely finished kissing Mary after lunch (over a rather charming book on marriage, too) when he heard on the strains of the radio playing in the drawing room that there had been an explosion at Baker Street.

"What's wrong, John?" Mary asked, because John's face had suddenly turned a sickly shade of white. The ex-Army Surgeon dashed into the drawing room and turned up the volume of the radio. Mary followed, her face equally stricken as she heard the news loud and clear.

_The explosion has taken out windows on both sides of the street and destroyed a block of flats. A casualty list has not been compiled yet –_

"I have to go," John said immediately, turning the radio off. Mary looked at him, blue eyes sad.

"I'll come with you," she said after a moment.

"No, it'll –"

"I'm coming with you, John." Mary took his arm, pulling him back into the hall. She grabbed a black coat and put it over her outfit – a short and ruffly brown skirt over a white linen top and a black lace corset. John fetched for her a pair of black boots.

"No, wrong pair," Mary murmured. "These clash with the striped stockings."

They quickly left the house and hailed a cab to return to Baker Street. However, there was a sizeable crowd in the middle of the street once they reached their destination, so John had to disembark, help Mary out, and shove his way through the throng in order to get to 221B.

Mrs. Hudson was outside, looking around her with wide eyes. "John! Oh, John, I'm glad you've returned!" she exclaimed as John and Mary approached. "Sherlock –"

"What's happened?" John rushed past her, unlocking the door and thundering up the stairs. Mary looked apologetically at Mrs. Hudson. The Landlady sighed and followed them back into 221B.

The explosion had, luckily enough, only taken out the building across from them. However, the windows had been shattered into glass shards that still littered the sitting-room floor, sparkling dangerously in the afternoon light.

In his usual seat, playing the violin as if he hadn't noticed any sort of explosion, sat the British Empire's only Consulting Detective. John released the breath he hadn't realised he was holding. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"John?" he asked, curiously. His hands paused on the violin.

"Sherlock." John nodded, turning back to Mary. "Sherlock, meet Mary."

"Ah, your girlfriend," Sherlock sneered, turning away. Mary frowned.

"Nice to meet you?" she asked.

"Mm." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Why the rush to get home? I'm perfectly fine."

"I heard about the explosion." John shrugged. "You should get replacements for the..." he gestured towards the windows.

"Parchment paper does well for the time being," Sherlock replied casually. "Violet dropped by when you were gone," he added.

John wasn't sure why he felt an angry curling in his stomach at that. "And what did she say?"

"Who says we said anything?"

The curling feeling worsened. John unconsciously clutched his stomach. Mary moved to his side, eyes worried.

Sherlock seemed to notice, because he had put his violin down. "She came to check on the droid. Also wanted to check up on your shoulder, but you weren't here." He shrugged. "She's finished with the clockwork mice, though."

"Really." John raised an eyebrow, but he could feel his stomach uncurling – a good sign.

"Mm, yes. She named one Basil of Baker Street and the other David Q. Dawson."

John snorted. "Odd names. Well, you seem to be functioning properly, so I think I ought to take my leave –" At that moment, he noticed that Sherlock and Mary had been staring at each other intently for the past couple of minutes. Sherlock's eyes were narrowed. Mary looked on coolly.

"Ah, pity." Sherlock turned away, sighing. Mary stared at him, confused.

"What?" she demanded.

"Your father's dead. Died abroad in a Corsair raid. I'm surprised you didn't know."

"What are you on about?" Mary asked, her voice quavering. John scowled at Sherlock.

"Sherlock, please –"

"Miss Morstan is quite obviously a Teacher based on the calluses she has on her fingers from wielding the teacher's rod all day. Teaching primary students, too, if her stance suggests anything – bending over and kneeling down to be eye-level with small children does eventually present itself in lower-back discomfort. The pocket-watch she carries is from a family member, a Soldier – 'CAPT. BARTHOLOMEW MORSTAN' is engraved into the back. She takes it out to look at frequently, but she isn't looking at the clock. She is looking at the back, at the name, which suggests that she is worried about the person who gave it to her. If it was her brother, the style of the watch would probably be a bit more modern, but no. This is an old watch, which suggests that it belongs to someone older. Father, perhaps. Most likely. It so happens that Captain Morstan was in the papers this morning." He gestured to the newspaper lying on the table. "He was in the fatality list on yet another Corsair raid."

Mary's mouth fell open. John rushed to her side, comforting words fighting each other for space on his tongue. In the end, he could only pat her shoulders as her eyes welled with tears. Without warning, she turned tail and ran from the room. John followed swiftly, glaring at Sherlock as he went.

In the hallway, John held Mary close, letting her sob into his shoulder. "I knew it. I knew he was going to..." she sobbed. John closed his eyes and patted her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm –"

"It's not your fault." Mary pulled away, grabbing her handkerchief and daubing her eyes. "Your charge just... dumped it on me... it's so sudden..."

"He died fighting. There's nothing to be ashamed of in that."

"I know." She looked up at him, smiling through the tears rolling down her face. "I know."

When they returned to the room, Mary taking John's armchair still wiping at her tears, Sherlock was leafing through the correspondence that he usually had jacknifed to the mantelpiece. There came an abrupt tapping at the window, however, and John went over to open it. A metallic pigeon flew in with the post.

"Hello, what's this?" John asked, plucking the post from the Post Pigeon. It consisted of two heavy parchment envelopes, eerily similar to the invitations discovered in the wine cellar at Copper Beeches. As the pigeon flew away, John walked over to Sherlock with the envelopes. "One for you, one for me."

"Invitations to the ball on Friday. Must be Mycroft's doing," Sherlock noted. "The parchment is heavy, formal, the type used for official Royal Invitations. The ink is imported from India, the type used by the Princess. And of course, the royal seal. Definitely an invitation to Her Royal Highness's debutante ball."

"Why, though?" John asked as Sherlock broke the seal and opened his envelope, taking out the contents. Sure enough, enclosed was an invitation card to the Royal Masquerade on Friday. "Will there be another bomb?"

"Mycroft must have pulled some strings. There may be something he wants us to do for him at the ball." Sherlock read the message, eyebrows quirked. "Whether it's to stop more Anarchists from ruining the night, or..."

"Says we can bring one guest," John noted suddenly. "Mary, what do you say? Care to accompany me to the Royal Masquerade?"

Mary, who had been sitting there torn between fascination and sombreness, sat up straighter with her eyes alight.

"I'd be delighted to, John! Simply delighted!"

Sherlock harrumphed.


	18. Masquerade

**Part XVII**

"Interesting."

It was Friday morning. Most of John's thoughts all morning had been centred on the ball that evening, so he had been abruptly brought back to earth when Sherlock uttered that word.

"What?"

"Look at the wound on her hand." Sherlock gestured to the body they were supposed to be examining. "What is the incubation period for tetanus bacteria, again?"

"About a week?" John asked, frowning. "Well, eight to ten days, I suppose, depending on the environment –"

"The wound on her hand from the alleged fatal accident is fresh."

John squinted. "You're right. So the tetanus got into her another way."

The door to the room opened and Molly Hooper came in, her expression elated. "Hello, Sherlock!"

"You're awfully cheery," Sherlock noted. "Moreso than your annoying usual, but..." He trailed off, as the door to the room opened yet again and a dark-haired man came in, smiling.

"Ah, Jim! Hi!" Molly looked extremely flustered. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes!"

"Oh, really?" the man named Jim smiled at Sherlock, who went back to investigating the body of Connie Prince. "Molly's told me all about you. So you're the new Consulting Detective, eh?"

"Had it for a little over a month already, thank you," Sherlock growled as Jim bent over, attempting to examine the body as well. There was a nudge. Sherlock looked down to see a card poking out from under Connie's hand – there hadn't been a card there before.

"Well, you seem to be very _hard_ at work," Jim replied. John raised an eyebrow. "Anyway, Molly, I just came here to return the book from yesterday."

"Oh, I forgot about it!" Molly took the book (_The Dynamics of an Asteroid_, by Professor James Moriarty) from the man. "Wait... it's been signed!"

"Yeah, I bumped into Professor Moriarty last night after you left. He's a great guy. Very clever."

"So clever! I could never understand what he was going on about with the binomial theorem, but..." Molly clutched the book to her chest. "Thank you so much!"

"No problem." Jim winked flirtatiously. "I best be going. See you at the theatre at eighteenish tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah! Bye!"

The door closed. Sherlock snorted. "Gay," he muttered.

"What?" Molly demanded. "He's not gay... we're together!"

"Mm, and domesticity must suit you, Molly dear, you've put on three pounds since I last saw you." Sherlock smirked. John internally groaned.

"Two and a half," Molly insisted.

"No, three."

"He's not gay! Why'd you have to spoil – he's not."

"With that level of personal grooming?"

"That could just indicate a dandy," John pointed out.

"Mm, no. A dandy is a bourgeois-class person pretending to be upper-class. This Jim fellow _is_ in the upper class – if not by nobility of blood then by wealth. After all, his little trinkets are genuine. And besides, dandies are known to shun emotional connections in favour of hedonism." He paused. "Yes, he does seem to be a bit over pretentious about his grooming, with that bespoke Vivienne Westwood suit and the solid gold pocket-watch, not to mention that pocket square in that shade of pink – but he also left his calling card under Connie Prince's hand over here." He held up the offending card. "Obviously he wants to stay in touch with me?"

Molly's brows furrowed. "He can't be in the aristocracy; he's a Teacher," she said after a moment.

"I'm in the aristocracy, and I'm the Consulting Detective," Sherlock refuted.

John sighed. "Sherlock, I don't think this is the time..."

"No, it isn't, is it?" Sherlock continued to examine Connie Prince. "Scratches on her arms, spots on her forehead... say, Molly, I haven't totally ruined your morning, have I?"

Her silence indicated her answer. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in amusement, straightened up and turned to face her.

"This evening there is a Royal Masquerade in honour of our dear Princess. Surely you know that?"

Molly nodded. "It's all over the papers," she muttered.

"Well, I have procured an invitation, and I was wondering if you'd like to accompany me. That is, if your _dear_ Jim won't mind?"

Molly's eyes widened. She seemed extremely torn; John had to suppress a smile at that. After a moment, she nodded.

"Good." Sherlock turned back to the corpse. "I'll see you at Baker Street at eighteen hours, sharp."

* * *

><p>"There's been another assassination, sir," Anthea reported to Mycroft. The Archagent, who had been reading through more diplomatic cables with his brows knit in frustration, looked up in alarm.<p>

"Who?" he asked.

"The Honourable Ronald Adair, sir." Anthea looked down at her phone. "Discovered last night dead in his room by his mother Edith and his sister Hilda. Shot in the head by an expanding bullet, according to the police report."

"Oh dear," Mycroft muttered. "He was one of our best Tacticians."

"Is this going to affect our standing in the war, sir?" Anthea looked at him with despairing eyes. Mycroft knew what she was thinking. Judging by all of the assassinations, all of the bombings, Britain seemed to be on the verge of revolution. Her brother would have died in vain.

"Absolutely not," he declared. "I will start pressing for peace negotiations as soon as possible."

The war had seemed so inevitable five years ago, when the Ottomans were destroying their trading vessels and attacking their travellers. But now, it seemed that it wasn't exactly a fight with the entire nation as it was a fight against the Corsairs. The Sky Corsairs, however, included more than just the Turks. It included the Corsairs of just about every other Middle Eastern country, gathered into a giant coalition of anti-British sentiment.

Amid other things, they wanted Pakistan. The Corsairs wanted the independence of the Islamic northern region of British-held India. Mycroft had intercepted messages between the Corsairs and the Russian Empire; he knew they were trying to form an alliance with the Czar in order to gain access to the Soldats. Should those brutal Soldier droids ally with the Corsairs, Britain's chances of winning the war would slim down to just short of none.

"Peace with whom, sir?" Anthea asked, and Mycroft had the feeling she knew what he was thinking about. "We're not fighting the Ottomans now, we're fighting their Corsairs. Even if we're at peace with the Ottomans, there'll still be war."

Mycroft nodded. "I know." He put his head in his hands. "I wish I knew who was supplying the Corsairs, though."

They had thought it was the Ottoman government. Now they're not so sure.

* * *

><p>Night fell swiftly. At sixteen hours, Molly Hooper arrived on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street dressed for the ball. John had brought Mary over earlier. The two women took to each other like a house on fire, complementing each other on their outfits and discussing their Assignments.<p>

John thought that both of them were dressed very nicely, and he knew that Sherlock also approved judging by his lacking of disparaging comments about their outfits. Molly was dressed in a beige strapless dress with a brass corset and layers of creamy lace arrayed along the skirt in a downward spiral. The skirt flared out at the bottom in floaty layers. Mary, on the other hand, was dressed in an off-the-shoulder gown in rich wine, with puff sleeves and a heavily ruched skirt. The bodice piece sported an intricate design of golden clockwork gears. Both women wore complementing masks.

In comparison, Sherlock and John were arrayed in suits – granted, they were more formal than usual, but still John felt ordinary in comparison to Mary and Molly in their ball gowns.

"Get your mask, John," Sherlock murmured, grabbing his coordinating top hat. He was dressed in dark blue with golden accents on his vest as well as golden buttons. John nodded and grabbed his mask. Mary straightened the golden epaulets on his shoulders and adjusted the lapels of the coat. John smiled at her gratefully.

The ball was being held on a floating ballroom, which was essentially a giant pavilion held up by sails and a hot air balloon. A giant clock at the top of the pavilion marked the hours. As with all proper masquerades, the ballroom sported two chambers – the clockwork chamber and the couples chamber. The clockwork chamber was the room in which everyone traded partners after every piece. The masks added a sense of anonymity, but Sherlock was certain he'd be able to figure out who was who even when they were acting like a totally different person with a mask over their face. Everyone was equal when their identities were obscured.

Once two people decided they wanted to share more than just one dance together, they moved into the couples chamber. There, they still remained anonymous but were not required to exchange partners, unless someone wanted to cut in or someone decided to return to the clockwork chamber. No matter which room, however, midnight was the signal to unmask.

Music was already playing when Sherlock and John arrived with Molly and Mary and presented their invitations. The floating ballroom was hovering over Buckingham Palace, only accessible by a fleet of flying gondolas that took parties of six up every three minutes. Once in the pavilion, Sherlock started looking around for Mycroft or anyone who would need their assistance. Obviously the affair had to be discreet, or otherwise the person wouldn't bother sneaking them the case in the middle of a masquerade, where anonymity reigned.

The opulence of the ballroom, on the other hand, threatened to overwhelm John. The checkerboard marble floor, shined and scrubbed within an inch of its life – the golden drapes swept back to let the evening sky peep through the high arched windows. Gilded lilies and roses sat in every corner and snaked along the Corinthian pillars, ending at giant golden busts of mechanical lions and unicorns. A glittering crystal chandelier hung in the ballroom that they were in, and no doubt the same decorations would be present throughout the adjoining chamber.

"The finest orchestra droids," Sherlock murmured, pointing at the other side of the room where a small clockwork orchestra was assembled.

"Isn't it lovely?" Mary gushed, her face glowing with excitement. "Come on, John, let's dance!"

"This is the clockwork chamber," John pointed out.

"Why not?" Mary smirked at him. "Trade a couple of partners, and then meet me at the refreshments table. We can go to the couples chamber after that." She grabbed his hand and spun him into the crowd already rotating about in circles like the gears of some great machine. "Come on, Sherlock!" she hollered.

Sherlock looked at Molly, who was shuffling nervously from one foot to the other.

"I don't dance much," the Pathologist admitted.

"Luckily for you, I was forced through months of ballroom dance training," Sherlock replied drily. "Shall we dance?"

"I…" Sherlock didn't give Molly much time to respond as he grabbed her waist and pulled her flush against his body. Her cheeks flared up violently. "Y-yes…" she breathed.

And off they went, joining the crowd of the clockwork chamber.

* * *

><p>The piece ended. The woman watched the couples of the clockwork chamber spin to a stop. Some of the couples moved next door. Others traded partners.<p>

She could see the Princess, dancing with some tall, boorish lord who obviously had no idea whose feet he was treading on. The Princess looked ravishing, in a gold gown covered by tiny rosettes. The woman watched her figure whirl out of sight, hands reaching up to touch her crimson mask.

She caught sight of another person, this time a man. She had seen him before; he'd been waltzing with a girl in a beige dress with a brass mask, and now he was dancing with a redhead in a bright green dress. He was dressed in dark blue, and his eyes, although she couldn't see them behind his dark blue domino, seemed to scan the ballroom. They landed on her, and for a moment she felt almost naked. The man's stare was a breath away from hypnotising.

The second piece ended. The woman strode over to the dark blue man, crimson lips twitching in a smile.

"May I have this dance?" she drawled with a voice like velvet and honey.


	19. A Scandal in Buckingham

**Part XVIII**

John was having fun, albeit grudgingly. After dancing with Mary he had found himself dancing with several other very attractively-dressed women. One of them had been a woman in a golden dress with rosettes, and as the piece ended John had been fairly certain that he had just waltzed with the young Princess, in whose honour this ball was being held.

He looked around the room, trying to find Sherlock's blue top hat and wild array of curls. After minutes of desperate gazing during which he had accidentally trod on his partner's toes several times, he spotted the Consulting Detective. He was waltzing with a woman in a crimson mask and dress. As he moved closer to them with his own very put-upon partner, he could almost feel the tension rolling off of the two of them, crackling like electricity.

That same uneasy – nay, _angry_ – feeling started gnawing at him again.

Luckily, the piece ended, and Sherlock turned to bid the woman goodbye. John nodded curtly at his partner, who was immediately whisked away by another man. He turned to talk to Sherlock, when suddenly two men approached them.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped.

"Your discretion," Mycroft hissed.

Sherlock's eyes darted over to John, who shrugged. They followed the masked Mycroft and the other man to a more secluded corner of the room. Another piece started up, lively and bold, and John fidgeted slightly when he saw Mary dancing on the other side of the room.

"This hopefully won't take very long," Mycroft drawled.

"Yes, you wouldn't want to be parted overlong from your date, the red velvet cake," Sherlock retorted scathingly.

The other man spoke up. "Let's get it over with, shall we?" he asked pleasantly in a Scottish accent.

"Aberdeenshire," murmured Sherlock, flicking his eyes up and down the man's form. "Ah, I see. You must be John Brown, the Princess's Protector Assistant. How are we going to stop the affair?"

The man stiffened. "Excuse me?"

"You are wearing the dress uniform of a member of the Royal Household, and if there is any member of the Royal Household who is more likely to approach strangers to request their help, it would be a Protector Assistant. Now, if this matter had been something that needed less discretion, you would have simply called me to tea at Buckingham. However, this issue seems to need a masquerade as a cover, so it must be something extremely sensitive. An affair, then. I can hazard to say that the person who is having the affair is the Princess herself, or you may not have approached me with this issue so soon."

"Well, yes," muttered the man. "She is, after all, set to marry within the year…"

"Charming. A German prince?"

"Yes, from Saxe-Coburg."

"And he is very likely to cancel the engagement if this affair comes to light?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ah. Well, that would require a great deal of discretion, now would it? The question is, why me? If you're asking me to break up the affair, I have no idea how –"

"No, no, the affair has been over for a month or so. It just so happens that last week, the other woman involved –"

"The _other woman_!" John interjected, shock clouding his features.

Sherlock looked at John sharply, before groaning slightly. "Oh, I forget. You and your bourgeois upbringing."

"Is there a problem with my upbringing?" John demanded.

"Oh, not really, other than the stringent morality which has instilled in you a dread of non-heteronormative sexualities. John, surely you must realise that restricting the rights of those who choose to love outside what is defined 'normal' by your middle-class standards is nothing but discriminatory?"

"I'm not against it!" John squawked defensively. "I'm just… a bit surprised."

"As I am surprised at you lecturing Mr. Watson about such matters as acceptance," Mycroft cut in. "My, what a change."

"Shut _up_, Mycroft."

"Yeah, do shut up, Mycroft," John growled. "It's fine with me, really. _It's all fine_. It just took me by surprise." He turned to the other man. "Continue?"

"Er, yes. So, as I was saying… the other woman…" he trailed off. "Have you heard of Irene Adler?"

John could swear that Sherlock was frowning behind the mask. "No…"

"You ought to pay more attention to the news, then, outside of the crime sections," Mycroft replied smoothly. "Irene Adler is a Courtesan. Formerly an Opera Singer from America, she has managed to procure herself this new job with her marriage into British upper-class society –"

"Specifically to a man named Godfrey Norton," cut in the Protector Assistant. "He is aware, though, of her profession, and does not interfere."

"Now, Ms. Adler seems to offer more services than those expected of your traditional Courtesan," continued Mycroft. "She provides… shall we say… 'recreational scolding'… for those who enjoy that sort of thing. In fact, that appears to be the thing that sparked this affair with Her Royal Highness and Ms. Adler."

John raised an eyebrow in surprise, but said nothing.

"So if the affair has already been over for a month, then I presume Ms. Adler has recently informed you that she has some highly compromising photographs?" Sherlock asked.

"Obviously," Mycroft replied.

"And the Princess and Ms. Adler appear in these photographs together?"

"Undoubtedly."

"How many photographs?"

"Numerous, we're told."

"In ways that can only indicate more than simple companionship?"

"Imaginative poses, we hear."

"John, do close your mouth. You're gaping like a fish."

John caught himself and awkwardly closed his mouth. Sherlock smirked.

"So, will you help us, Mr. Holmes?" the Protector Assistant asked.

"How?"

"Will you take the case?"

"What case?" Sherlock frowned. "Pay her. Immediately. If she is blackmailing you for money or favours, give it to her. There's nothing else to it."

"No, there is something," Mycroft snapped. The fiery piece drew to an end. The four of them looked around at the changing dance partners. "She doesn't want anything for these photographs. She merely informed us of its existence a week ago and indicated that she wanted nothing out of it. Neither money nor favours. However, that in and of itself suggests that –"

"She's telling you the photographs exist but she does not wish to extort money or favours? Ah, so it must be a power play with the most powerful family in Britain!" Sherlock's smirk grew wider. "Of course the reputation of the Princess is at stake, so you would do anything for her in order to prevent these photos from making their way into the hands of the Royal Consort-to-be. Oh, what a_ lovely_ scandal!"

"You know we cannot afford such a scandal," muttered Mycroft. "With these assassinations and bombings and a seemingly meaningless war abroad –"

"That you started," Sherlock added.

"We cannot afford to turn the Royal Family into a laughingstock," finished Mycroft. "In this hour of need, dear brother, your name has risen. So, will you take the case?"

"Where is Ms. Adler?"

The two men looked at each other. "In this very room," the Protector Assistant said after a moment. "She was the woman you were just dancing with."

* * *

><p>Molly scanned the crowd for a sign of Sherlock. She couldn't see him anywhere – but then again, the only recognisable person she could find was Mary, and she was busy dancing.<p>

"Looking for someone?" a voice asked. Molly wondered why he sounded familiar. Perhaps she had already danced with him.

"No, no. Shall we dance?" she asked cheerily. The man smiled, extending his hand. They began to dance.

Sherlock watched Molly whirl past as he looked through the crowd for Irene Adler. He could see the Princess in her gold dress. John stood next to him, swaying slightly to the music.

"My left shoulder's starting to feel sore," John remarked.

"You were dancing with the Princess a couple pieces ago," Sherlock replied. "Golden dress with rosettes, that's her."

"She's a marvellous dancer." John adjusted the epaulets on his coat and looked about for Mary.

"Mary's with one of the British Ambassadors. First class court uniform, golden oak-leaf embroidery over dark blue velvet, single-breasted coat with tails. Blue velvet facings on stand collar and gauntlet cuffs. Gilt buttons. Waistcoat, breeches, ceremonial sword strapped to the side along with cocked hat on his head. Really quite obvious."

"Do you know which?"

"Can't tell from this distance, sorry." Sherlock shrugged. "I'm sure you can intercept her after this so the two of you can retire to the couples chamber."

"Will you find Molly and join us?"

"Mm, no, I'm afraid I won't join you for quite a while." Sherlock looked at John, smiling pleasantly. "After midnight, when the masquerade is over, escort Molly and Mary home and fetch a self-lighting smoke rocket. Then you must go to wherever I tell you to go, all right?"

"Where will you tell me to go?"

"I'll send a textogram." Sherlock looked around the room again.

"Who are you looking for?" John asked suspiciously.

"A certain Courtesan. Aha." Sherlock immediately took off in the direction of a crimson-clad woman, leaving John behind. John sighed, and walked over to Mary who had just concluded her dance with the British Ambassador. He took her hand; she looked at him almost in alarm. With her almost struggling to keep up with his heated strides, John stormed through the double doors into the couples chamber.

"You seem mad about something," Mary murmured.

"What? No, I'm fine. How was the Ambassador?"

"Dreadful dancer, sweet man. Apologised profusely for my poor toes." She smiled. "John, are you jealous?"

"No, not of you…" John cast another glance at the clockwork chamber. "Why don't we just… dance?"

"I was under the impression that that's what tonight is for," she replied.

* * *

><p>"Who was the man you were just dancing with?"<p>

Molly turned, expecting to see Sherlock. She got instead a man dressed in burgundy, whose suit seemed deliberately engineered to hide an expanding belly.

"Oh, I don't know," she said, flustered. "Never asked his name."

"I see," the burgundy man extended a hand. "You arrived in the company of one Mr. Sherlock Holmes this evening, didn't you?"

"Y-yes, but I'm not… with him… or anything. We just…"

"Molly Hooper, the Pathologist?"

"How did you –?"

"I make it my business to know all the Assignments of people near my younger brother," the man replied calmly.

"You're related to Sherlock?"

"Certainly." The man smiled, but it seemed to be a rather pained one. "Do pardon my dreadful dancing."

"No, it's fine, I'm not much of a dancer myself." Molly laughed a little, feeling slightly out of breath. "Do you know where Sherlock is?"

"Mm, I have no idea right now, but I can assure you that you won't be seeing him for the rest of the night." The burgundy man twirled her around and into his arms for the breath of three seconds; Molly could distinctly feel that there wasn't much belly for the suit to hide.

"Oh," she said after a moment. "Well, I'm… not exactly in the mood to… say, shall we move into the next room after this?"

The man's eyes seemed to scan her just like Sherlock's as he replied, "certainly."


	20. El Tango de Irene

**Part XIX**

In the couples chamber, the lights had dimmed somewhat. Mary tugged at John's hands; the two of them parted to the side with the other couples to make room for –

John stared.

Wasn't that Sherlock? But who was he with?

The clockwork droids in this chamber started to play something with a low, dangerous vibe. Gone was the gilded, royal façade, the stately ballroom dances – no, this was something more. Something dangerously sensual, like the glow of firelight in a darkened room and John could swear that he had never seen Sherlock so attractive as he looked now, eyes hidden behind his dark blue domino and pale skin thrown into sharp contrast against his tousled dark hair and royal blue clothes.

"That's Sherlock, right?" whispered Mary, fingers squeezing John's hand lightly. Outside the floating pavilion the stars and moon seemed to peer curiously from behind the clouds. Here, the dangers of nighttime London were nonexistent amid the polished and masked spectators and yet present in the figures moving across the floor, almost walking – except they weren't.

Contradictions everywhere.

The woman was dressed in scarlet – scarlet hairpiece, scarlet mask, scarlet bodice. The hoop of her skirt was blatantly exposed, with only a scarlet bustle and train over it. Underneath the metal hoop were layers and layers of black lace. She wore fishnet stockings and scarlet shoes. Even for their era, it seemed indecent to wear such an outfit to a Royal Ball, even a masquerade. John was fairly certain he'd seen her dancing with Sherlock before.

Ah, so this woman was Irene Adler.

Her scarlet lips were quirked in a smile, and obviously John wouldn't have been able to see her eyes from behind her scarlet Columbina mask – but he was certain her eyes held nothing of the warmth of her smile. They'd be cold, glittering. Fixed on Sherlock, intent on the dance. Her legs flashed in intricate circles around his.

Their foreheads, their bodies, their legs – everything only touched momentarily, teasingly. It was a game of cat and mouse; they danced circles around each other as they moved across the ballroom, two magnets with the same poles held in close proximity. Never attracted, only orbiting. The feeling in John's stomach worsened as the piece went on.

"I didn't know Sherlock was such a good dancer," Mary breathed, captivated. John realised, with a growing angry burn in his gut, that watching Sherlock dance with Irene Adler was like reading one of Harry's trashy romance novels. He felt like he was peering into a world he shouldn't be seeing, watching an act deemed intimate, private, almost taboo. Perhaps it _was _his upbringing – the middle class prided itself on moral cleanliness and emphasis on abstinence and celibacy for unmarried couples. The upper class and working class had no such qualms.

"Neither did I," John admitted, and realised suddenly that he was squeezing Mary's hand too hard. He let go. "I need some air."

John strode away from the crowd and over to the window, looking out and down on the rooftops of London. Being in a floating ballroom was like being in a bubble, away from the harshness of reality. But then again, just about everything that had to do with Royalty felt like leaving the real world and entering an endless parade of finery, protocol, and pomp. Some things just never changed.

"My brother is, indeed, quite the dancer." Mycroft was at John's side, holding a flute of champagne.

"I thought I saw you with Molly earlier? Where is she?"

"Enjoying herself and watching Sherlock dance with Irene Adler." Suspicions confirmed. John's hands curled into fists. "Jealous?"

"What gave you that idea?"

"Your jaw is set, your fists are clenched, the muscles in your neck are quite definite. You appear angered by Sherlock's choice in a dance partner – unless I am mistaken and you are jealous of _Sherlock_ for dancing with _Ms. Adler_."

"Don't be ridiculous –"

"Ah, so you're jealous of Ms. Adler for dancing with Sherlock. Good, I was right."

"Is this revenge for me telling you to shut up earlier?"

"No, I am merely pointing out your current mental state." Mycroft smiled at John, eyes barely discernible by starlight. "_Why _you are jealous, though, is something that I can't quite figure out."

"I'm his Protector, and he's dancing with a Courtesan –"

"Nothing wrong with that," Mycroft interrupted. "I can see that you're very protective of my brother – that you have been since the start. For that, I commend you. But this… this goes beyond protectiveness."

"You said you can't figure out my reasons."

"No, but I definitely know it's more than professional." Mycroft grinned. "Just like I know that this dance is working and pretty soon you will not be able to find Sherlock anywhere at the masquerade for a couple of hours, after which you may receive Ms. Adler's address. Child's play."

John's mouth fell open. "So you're telling me that he's…"

"Seducing her? Not quite. It's not his area." Mycroft shook his head and turned back towards the dancing couple. "He's allowing himself to be seduced."

* * *

><p>The heat of the tango had transferred into a dangerous tension, the same that had existed before when they had danced in the clockwork chamber. Sherlock continued to keep his cool, mirroring and complementing Irene's steps.<p>

"You're rather good at this," he remarked.

"Mm, you're not so bad," Irene replied. Her voice was silky, the refined drawl of a woman who relied on the triumvirate of her charm, her intelligence, and her body to make her way in the world.

Sherlock smirked. The woman rested her head against his shoulder for a breath before she twirled out of his arms again. He reeled her in, and their bodies pressed close for a second. She leaned up, lips inches from his and for the briefest of moments Sherlock had thought she was going to kiss him. But then she was out at arms' length again, the smirk on her face suggesting that that had been intentional.

"What else can you do?" he asked. "I hear you're quite the entertainer, for a Courtesan."

"And how did you know I was a Courtesan?"

"Who else would wear such attire to a royal function?" Sherlock's eyes sparkled mischievously behind his mask. "You do intrigue me, Ms. Adler."

"And you intrigue me too, whoever you are." Irene leaned in closer, whispering in his ear. "Shall we find somewhere more secluded? I know just the place to show you what else I can do."

"Oh, really." He pulled away and they danced around each other again, mirroring each other's steps. Her legs lashed out flamboyantly, red heels flashing in the light. Her crimson train somehow never impeded her movements.

"After this piece, then." For almost every soft caress there was a sharp turn of the head, a teasing jerk in the opposite direction. Sherlock had never felt this intellectually challenged by a dance before. If there ever was a dance to describe a game of cat and mouse, it would be this.

"I look forward to it," he mumbled, lips barely brushing against the shell of her ear. He lowered his head further, his lips brushed for a second against her neck – and then he was gone, smirking to himself. Tit for tat.

The dance ended moments later and as Sherlock raised his partner from the dip they had ended in, he noticed in what little light they had that her pupils were blown. His hands shifted to her wrist. Her pulse was beating quickly, throbbing against his fingers as if trying to escape.

Perfect.

* * *

><p>John was now decidedly not having fun. Mary could tell from the sullen way he glared at the door leading out of the floating ballroom, from the agitated way he looked at any nearby clock. It didn't take a deductive genius like Sherlock Holmes to figure out why.<p>

"He left with that scarlet woman hours ago, John," she reminded him gently. He was now seated to the side, holding a glass of wine and looking downright miserable. Molly and Mycroft were standing a ways away, chatting somewhat amiably. Mary laid a reassuring hand on John's arm.

"He told me to wait," John growled, more to himself than to anyone. "Why? Why would he let her…?"

"Let her do what?"

"Nothing." John looked up and said that far too quickly for it to be just nothing. Mary looked down at her own hands.

"You're jealous," she said after a moment.

"Is it so bloody obvious?" John groaned, slouching in his seat and clapping a hand to his forehead. "Even the bloody git's bloody brother has to point it out in my bloody –"

"John, please." Mary took his hands again. "Answer me honestly. Are you happy with Sherlock?"

"What – what does this have to do with anything? Yes, I'm happy with Sherlock, but that doesn't signify –"

"Calm down, John." Mary squeezed tighter. "There are some things you can tell about people, things that are hard to explain. I can tell that the war, your injury – it's all changed you." She reached up, touching his shoulder. "You're not the John Watson I knew before, and that's fine, because I love you no matter what."

John opened his mouth to say something, but Mary held up a finger. She continued.

"But with Sherlock, when you're with Sherlock I can see you return to your old self. Think about it. He's the one who helped you get rid of the cane, and he's the one who makes you forget about your shoulder in the thrill of a chase. I see it whenever you tell me about your adventures. Without him, you'd be alone. Even when you're standing next to me, you look alone."

"Mary, I'm sorry –"

"No, no. It's the truth, John, and I've been seeing this for quite a while but I was never sure how to break it to you. And tonight, I've seen the final proof. There is more in your attachment to Sherlock Holmes, even if you can't see it."

John subsided, watching Mary from behind his mask. She could almost see the sheen of tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

"Mary, how could you say that?" he asked after a moment, voice quiet.

"Because you know it's true and you're just refusing to see it. That woman is making you jealous because you're attracted to your charge."

"All right, I see your reasoning. But even if – let's say that your reasoning was true. What the hell would I do about it? You've seen Sherlock. He's married to his work."

Mary nodded, looking down at their hands. Slowly, she let go. "I think you'll be able to find the right opportunity to tell him how you feel, John. It'll be better this way."

"Mary, what…"

"We can still be friends." She smiled at him, pushing down the lump in her throat. "Dance with me?"

"It's the last one before midnight."

"Obviously so. One last dance, John." She got up, extending her hand again. He took it.

They moved onto the dance floor with the rest of the couples. The lights had dimmed somewhat; several people had already left. The Princess had finally moved into the couples chamber with someone who looked like the British Ambassador from where John was standing. Mycroft and Molly were dancing as well, Molly resting her head on Mycroft's shoulder and Mycroft's face a perfect façade of stoicism.

"Molly looks sad," Mary remarked. "But I guess it's got something to do with Sherlock's early departure."

"Mm." John looked at the clock behind the clockwork orchestra. Two minutes to midnight. The song ticked on.

They had manoeuvred themselves close to where Mycroft and Molly were dancing. "John!" Mycroft said suddenly. "It wouldn't be too much out of line for me to escort Molly and Mary back to their houses, would it? I know you're going to be busy very soon…"

"Oh, yes, actually I'd love it if you could…" John trailed off and looked at Mary. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all." Mary smiled at him. "One minute left."

John took a deep breath. They returned to their dancing. Round and round the room they went, like figures out of a music box. The clock slowly ticked its way down to midnight. John's hands felt clammy against Mary's.

_DONG! DONG!_

The clock started to strike midnight. All around them the figures froze.

_DONG! DONG! _

The droids drew their piece to an end and froze in place as well. The chandeliers went out.

_DONG! DONG!_

John reached up in the darkness, plucking off his mask with a sigh. He could feel Mary doing the same as well, her dress rustling.

_DONG! DONG! _

John took several deep breaths and started fumbling at his belt for his phone, hoping for the telltale ding of a textogram.

_DONG! DONG!_

Only the moonlight gave any hint of light in the room. Everything was shadow. John could see Mary's features starkly contrasted against the moonlit window. He leaned in and kissed her forehead. She laughed quietly.

_DONG! DONG!_

On the twelfth chime, the lights went back on. John heard the smaller _ding!_ from his phone. He pulled it out. The little message started appearing on the strip of paper.

_Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John's Wood. Bring the self-lighting smoke rocket. Position yourself near the downstairs window. When I raise my hand, throw the rocket into the downstairs sitting-room; I will make sure the windows are open.  
>SH<em>

* * *

><p>Sherlock looked out the window, hoping to see a cab. He had removed his mask, but he had also donned an alias. Irene Adler didn't demand to see identification, for which he was grateful.<p>

He wasn't sure how many times he could successfully fake being Basil Rathbone until he'd have to find a new alias.

Just as he heard the clanking and clattering of a hansom cab coming towards the building, Irene made her reappearance. Sherlock looked over, but quickly did a double take.

He'd expected some sort of overwrought leather and metal corset, with plenty of buckles and shine. He'd expected black and red lace like the sort she wore at the ball. He'd expected a kimono.

He was not expecting her to wear nothing at all.

"Well then, Mr. Rathbone," purred Irene, sashaying closer to Sherlock with her intent clear in her eyes. "Shall we have dinner?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Good. Neither am I."

"It's past midnight."

"All the better." She knelt down before him, her eyes searching his. She had also taken off her mask; her grey eyes were darkened with desire. Sherlock hoped in the dim lighting that she couldn't discern any noticeable lack of reaction in his body. He also hoped that John would get there soon.

He chanced a glance out the window. John was standing on the pavement, looking into the downstairs sitting room where they were. For a moment, their eyes met. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. John was looking at him with an expression caught between longing and anger. Jealousy and want. He felt a slight stirring inside him for noticing; his insides suddenly felt extremely warm. Irene seemed to have noticed this change. When he turned to face her again, she grabbed him roughly by the back of her head and kissed him with lips, teeth, tongue.

Sherlock had no choice but to surrender.

* * *

><p>John's mouth fell open. He wasn't sure he knew what he was seeing or if he wanted to see it – no, he definitely didn't want or need to see that.<p>

After that conversation with Mary, the last thing he wanted to see was Sherlock snogging Irene Adler against the window of her downstairs sitting-room. Especially when she was all kinds of naked and it was quite obvious to him from outside and a couple metres away.

John looked down, seeing his white knuckles on the self-lighting smoke rocket. It was the only thing that gave away his agitated state of mind. He snuck onto the property, looking around to make sure no one else was watching – for a moment there he'd seen Sherlock notice him on the street and he was certain he'd have to take cover before any patrol planes went by. It was well into the witching hour, after all, and people might talk.

John took cover in a patch of bushes near the window and looked over again. Sherlock's figure had barely moved; Irene seemed to be doing most of the writhing. John was glad he couldn't hear anything, because he wasn't sure how much more of it he could take. Off in the distance, he heard a dog howling.

Suddenly, Sherlock was scrabbling for the window, as if trying to get it open. Irene reached over and opened it for him – John could hear him say something about it being a bit too warm – Sherlock raised his hand – John lobbed the rocket into the room with a bit more force than necessary. Smoke started to permeate the room.

John ducked back into the bushes, listening to the conversation.

"What? What's going on?"

"I haven't the slightest. Seems to be an Anarchist bomb."

"Oh… oh dear."

"Let me check." There was the shuffling of footsteps. "Ah. No, not a bomb. A smoke rocket. False alarm."

"Who could have possibly thrown it?"

"I haven't the slightest. Is your husband away for long?"

"How did you –?"

"Indentation on your ring finger, albeit faint. Don't worry, though. It's all fine."

John felt a sick curling in his stomach and a distinct feeling of nausea. He wanted to leave.

"Mm, undoubtedly." Kissing noises. John's teeth clenched. "Are we still up for dinner?"

"Oh, look at the time. You must be tired. That tango was certainly exhausting. I'll see myself out."

"When can I contact you again? I have so much more to show you." A suggestion. A coy hint. Promises.

"I have a feeling we'll be seeing each other very… very soon." Sherlock's voice was low, husky. John got up and started to sneak away from the premises, legs and hands shaking. God, he felt immature. Like a petty, jealous teenager. This was ridiculous.

He walked to the end of the road, called a cab, and rode back to Baker Street in quiet misery.


	21. Sherlocked

**Part XX**

When Sherlock returned to Baker Street at one in the morning, he returned to a seemingly empty flat. John was nowhere to be seen in the sitting room, so Sherlock ascended the stairs to John's bedroom to see if he was there.

His door was locked. Sherlock examined the complicated combination lock. After a moment, he had turned all three dials and unlocked the door, opening it quietly.

John was asleep, but in the light Sherlock could see shimmering tear tracks on his cheeks. He'd barely changed out of his masquerade outfit, the coat with the epaulets draped over the chair and the breeches rumpled on the floor next to the boots. Sherlock took a seat at the spindly chair and reached over, wiping away the tear tracks. He had a feeling he knew what John had been crying about. It only made him feel worse.

After a moment of watching John's chest rise and fall in the slowly waning moonlight, Sherlock got up, leaned over, and tucked the blanket more snugly under John's chin. Turning, he left the room, locked the door, and descended into the sitting room.

Benedict scowled at him from the mantelpiece. Sighing, Sherlock took the skull, wound it, and stared at the gears as it turned and played the haunting melody. All of the success he had felt on the way home to Baker Street had left him in a rush when he saw the tears on John's face. It unnerved him; he wasn't supposed to be this affected by tears.

But it was John who'd cried them, and that made all the difference in the world. In a month, John had progressed from a nuisance – a cog in Mycroft's machinations to hinder Sherlock's freedom – to Sherlock's only friend and confidante. People had pointed it out. Without John, Sherlock was a cold, calculating machine. A droid's mind in a human's body.

John was the missing humanity.

Sherlock looked at the clockwork skull again, smiling sadly. Benedict had stopped playing. Sherlock wound him up again and set him on the table next to his chair, sighing deeply. He looked over at the clock. Two o' clock. He wasn't even remotely tired. His internal clock had long since ceased to function properly, and he had slowly conditioned himself to function for at most a week without sleep or ingesting anything more substantial than bread and water. Sometimes, even_ he _wasn't sure if he wasn't a droid.

This was the state that John found Sherlock in at six in the morning – bleary-eyed but not sleeping, smoking a pipe like a chimney. Sherlock looked up to see John, before refocusing his gaze on the rug between their chairs.

"How many pipes did you go through?" John asked.

"Three," Sherlock replied calmly.

"Three!"

"It's a three-pipe problem." Sherlock crossed his legs and stared intently at the floor. "How are you?"

"Fine." John said that rather coldly. "Just… fine."

"I hope I didn't give you too much trouble last night?"

"No," John replied immediately. "It'd only be trouble if you didn't find anything."

"Good. I did." Sherlock looked up and removed the pipe from his mouth. "I know the location of the photographs."

"Good."

"We're going back to Briony Lodge to fetch them."

John looked up, alarmed. "What?" he asked. "Go back there? Now?"

"Mm, yes. She'll be in town to meet her husband today; he just returned from abroad. Business trip to France. In the meantime, I have the pretence of fetching my hat and mask from her house to gain access."

"Oh good, you do that."

Sherlock frowned. "Aren't you coming along?" Did John have a meeting with Mary? He could feel that gnawing feeling of anger and jealousy, albeit dimly.

"No, I'm not in the mood. Need to go to Regent's Park. Bit of fresh air."

"Didn't sleep well?"

"Not at all." John fetched his hat. "I'll be going –"

"John, nothing happened between me and Irene Adler last night." Sherlock's voice was quiet, almost apologetic. John turned around, and Sherlock noted with satisfaction that he appeared shocked, interested.

"Nothing?" he echoed, crossing back to his chair and sitting down.

"You heard me. I'm not going to say it again."

"I saw you doing that dance with her. Between the two of you, the tension was so palpable that I could tune it and play it like your bloody violin!"

"And yet nothing became of that tension." Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "If you cared to look closer, you would have seen that I was not responding. Whether subtly or overtly, I displayed no reaction to her advances."

"Well, she was obviously interested, the way she was –"

"John, calm down."

"I've been calm all last night!" John's words lashed out like a whip. Sherlock's eyes widened. "Look, had I not known that you were supposed to do all of that in order to discover the location of the photographs, I would have stopped it. You were in danger, Sherlock!"

"No, I wasn't. Her husband was away and knows about her profession, and I am a person who is very unlikely to fall into the emotional traps that a Courtesan of her calibre would spring for me. It was all under control."

John took a couple of deep breaths, eyes closed. Sherlock watched him, frowning. Did he really affect his Protector in such a way?

"I see," John said after a moment, and there was a sudden resignation in his voice that Sherlock did not like. "Unlikely to fall into emotional traps. Good. One less thing for me to concern myself about."

"What are you on about?"

John's eyes flew open. "Everyone else has been pointing it out to me, and you tell me you don't know?"

Sherlock's brows furrowed imperceptibly. "Sentiment," he said after a moment. "You've made the mistake of becoming emotionally attached to me."

"Biggest mistake of my life, if I do say so myself." John stood up. "I don't need to hear your tirade on how sentiment's a chemical defect found in the losing side and all. I'm going to take a walk in Regent's Park, and –"

Sherlock cut him off by leaping out and grabbing the sides of his face. "John. You need to come with me."

"Why?"

"Because you're my Protector."

"So?"

"So? Don't you see?"

"I do see, but apparently I don't observe."

Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled. He could smell miniscule traces of the cologne John had used last night. It smelt pleasant, musky. It reminded Sherlock of reading an old book in the fading twilight of an equally old forest and it took a while before he was able to form a coherent sentence. "This case… is important, and… I am about to… close it… so if you could… help me for a moment longer… I would appreciate it… very much." So much for a coherent sentence. This close proximity to John was doing dangerous things to his train of thought.

John's breath seemed to catch in his throat. Sherlock's fingers drifted down to his neck, locating the pulse that fluttered there erratically. "Sherlock, what are you doing?" he asked in a strangled voice.

"Convincing you to come with me to Briony Lodge. I'll leave you to your walk afterwards."

* * *

><p>John hated Sherlock.<p>

He hated his unconventionally beautiful face, all angles and cheekbones and piercing grey-blue-green eyes. He hated the wisps of curly dark hair that fell in his eyes, hated the smooth white column of his neck, hated the Cupid 's bow lips.

He especially hated how easy it was for this beautiful, dangerous, _stupid_ man to convince him to follow him like some sort of lemming or puppy or duckling. John followed, not only because it was his job to do so but also because it was Sherlock who asked, Sherlock who looked at him with that infernal pleading look reminiscent of a M.A.T.I.N. begging for a piece of scrap metal.

John quickly found himself bundled into a cab heading for Briony Lodge. Sherlock sat next to him, practically vibrating with excitement. Once at the house, the Consulting Detective fairly threw himself out of the cab and raced up to the door.

"Wait up, for cog's sake," John hollered, instructing for the Cab Driver to wait for them and running after his charge. Sherlock had pulled the door-lever, and a Maid greeted him with a smile.

"Hello?" Immediately, John could see the persona of Basil Rathbone, the cheery Mechanic, falling into place. "I was here last night. I do believe I've left some of my things here."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Rathbone. I'll fetch your mask for you."

"And my hat – but it's all right; I'll get them myself." Sherlock smiled angelically, and the Maid let them in.

John looked around at the entry. Sherlock was already walking away in the opposite direction from the cloakroom, where his hat and mask sat on the shelf for everyone to see. John fetched them; Sherlock's shadow vanished into the sitting room.

Moments later, the Consulting Detective reappeared, looking extremely smug. John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock smirked.

"I'll show you later," he whispered, before biding the Maid goodbye and suggesting that she not notify her mistress unless she wanted the master to know as well. The two of them left the house and got back into the cab, driving back to Baker Street in relative silence.

"So, what'd you find?" John asked. Sherlock held up a silver key.

"Memory Key. Stored in a safe hidden in her downstairs sitting-room behind the mirror. The smoke was a ploy to get her to reveal the hiding spot. In the case of a fire, a woman tends to look towards her most prized possession. Usually a child, for a mother, or jewels for a younger woman – but Irene Adler looked towards the mirror, so I could deduce that the photographs were hidden there."

"I see." John licked his lips nervously. "And you're going to use my laptop to access the Memory Key."

"Precisely."

"I don't know why I even bother leaving it in my room; it usually ends up on your table anyway. Don't you have your own?"

"Waiting on the new model, sorry." Sherlock shrugged.

Once back at their flat, Sherlock grabbed John's laptop and inserted the key into the side before winding up the laptop. He typed in John's password (John had long since given up trying to set a hard-to-guess password; Sherlock cracked it every time) and pulled up the folder contained on the Memory Key.

There were photographs, yes, but it wasn't of Irene and the Princess. It was just Irene, dressed in a scarlet silk kimono. There were paper fans in her dark hair. She carried a red-and-black lace fan; in the first photograph it was drawn across her cheek; in the second it was opened behind her head; in the third she was kissing the handle. Accompanied by the picture was a document. Sherlock opened it with a slight tremor in his hand.

The document was dated today, at two in the morning. It read:

_My Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,_

_What an intriguing game we played. I was almost fooled, until you deduced my marital status and had your Protector Assistant lob the smoke rocket into my sitting-room. Yet still, I had betrayed the location of the photographs. So as soon as I realised this, I followed your cab to Baker Street. You may have heard me bid you farewell this morning. As you read this, my dear husband and I will be well on our way to Poland, where you may hope to hear from me in the Imperial Opera. Your Princess and the Royal Family may rest in peace; I will not release those photographs. I may even want to see her again, should time and circumstance bring me back to London. The photographs will remain with me, however, for my protection should I return._

_I was warned about you. The man I consulted with as soon as I landed in England, the man who provided me with the connections to my dear husband, told me that if my profession caused a scandal you would be one of the first involved in its cover-up. He's quite a perceptive man, the Professor. He knew you were going to become Consulting Detective before you became Consulting Detective! Isn't that something? I am the one who gave him the key, like I gave you this one. Do keep it well as a souvenir of that wonderful tango. You're quite the dancer._

_You must already know so much about the Professor, though, so I don't think I shall give you any other pieces of the game. In the meantime, I will tell you that the dance last night was the most alive I'd felt in ages, and for that I will forever remain,_

_Very truly Sherlocked,  
>Irene Norton, née Adler<em>

John's mouth fell open. Sherlock laughed shortly, drily.

"Well, this," John gestured to the screen. "This is…"

Sherlock remained silent, looking at the screen. "She is, indeed, quite the woman. _The_ woman."

John quirked an eyebrow.

"She beat me." Sherlock's voice was quiet.

John laughed. "Yes, she did."

"But the game's not over, no. She provided clues in the letter." Sherlock had quickly snapped out of the trancelike-state he had been in after reading the letter and started rereading it. "Everything in the second paragraph…"

"She was warned about you," John murmured, leaning over Sherlock's shoulder. "How she became a Courtesan… she got help from a Professor."

"Moriarty," Sherlock said immediately.

"Yeah, probably. But what's this about him knowing you'd… could he have?"

"She says that she was the one who gave him the key. The key! Which key? A Memory Key!" Sherlock took a deep breath and put his hands together in his thinking pose. "Memory Key… Memory Key… John! We have to go to Buckingham Palace!"

"Wait, what? Why?" Sherlock was already out of his seat and rushing into his bedroom to change out of the dark blue suit. He reappeared moments later in a light blue shirt, a black vest, and his coat, slipping his fob watch into his pocket and adjusting the magnifying goggles on his head. He grabbed his usual dark blue scarf off its hook on the back of the door and raised an eyebrow at John, who remained rooted to the spot with confusion.

"What do you mean, why?"

"What does all of this have to do with going back to Buckingham Palace?"

"It says so right in the letter!"

"I don't see anything in the letter!"

Sherlock closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. "Andrew West, John."

Realisation dawned on John. "Oh," he breathed. "Oh, I see."

"Andrew West was last seen in the vicinity of Buckingham Palace a month ago, when Irene Adler was still at court having her affair with the Princess. She would have had rooms at the palace; the Princess wouldn't want to be seen travelling to her house at St. John's Wood all the time."

"Andrew West must have been another one of Irene's clients," John murmured. "She did recreational scolding, after all. She must have stolen it from him when he was there…"

"Violet told me when she came over a couple of days ago that on his final days he had been quiet, had told her he needed to see someone about something. He must have figured out that Irene had stolen the key and he needed it back. She anticipated it, had him kidnapped en route to visit Violet, and… scolded him for a while before… before he was killed. This so far is obvious from the data that we have. I need more to figure out how he got from the Palace to the train lines."

"She gave him the Memory Key, then! The one with information about the Legacy Project? She gave it to Moriarty!" John's eyes widened. "What are we going to do?"

"Well, first we're going to wrap up this case. Then we'll see if we can retrieve the key." Sherlock was already heading downstairs. "I don't have high hopes for the latter, but the former is definitely doable."


	22. Eliminating the Impossible

**Part XXI**

They encountered John Brown on the way into the palace. He quickly directed them to the rooms previously held by Irene Adler. Sherlock and John raced down the hallway towards the rooms; John's heart was beating madly in his chest.

The room was empty, naturally. Sherlock snapped his magnifying goggles over his eyes and started looking around for clues. John stood there trying to catch his breath.

"Look," Sherlock said suddenly. John walked over to the window, where the Consulting Detective stood. On the ledge there were faint red specks. "Bloodstains."

"Here…" John knelt down, pointing at stains along the wallpaper. "They'd tried to wash it out, but to no use. These rooms are spare; they won't need to repaper until the next guest."

"Slight discolouration on the marble, too." Sherlock frowned, and suddenly started moving the dresser. "We found that he'd been injected with a narcotic. Possibly her defence – Courtesans have been known to do that to violent clients. Once he was incapacitated… I don't think she dealt the killing blows, though, see?" He'd pushed the dresser to the side at this point, revealing the remnants of a boot print. It appeared to be caked with dried blood and a faint oily sheen. "With a bit of analysis, we may be able to find the location of this boot's owner prior to the murder, based on what's been left on the soles."

John pulled out a pouch to store several flakes from the print, stashing it away in his utility belt. Sherlock pushed the dresser back into place and stood up, triumphantly surveying the room.

They were soon in a cab on the way to Bart's once more. Sherlock managed to rope Molly into helping them again, even if she looked tired and slightly disgruntled. John had to admit, she must have the patience of a saint in order to maintain a crush on such an infuriating man. He needed to ask her how she managed to do it.

For the next hour or so, Sherlock and Molly were bent over various tests that appeared to be designed by Sherlock himself. John felt extremely unwanted, sitting on a stool watching them. He had half a mind to call Mary, but then he reckoned she was probably busy catching up on sleep. He knew she valued it.

"Anything I can do?" he asked suddenly, causing the Consulting Detective and the Pathologist to look up in alarm.

"Excuse me?" Molly asked.

"Anything I can do to help? I feel a bit useless."

"Oh." Molly looked at Sherlock. "I… dunno. Maybe you could… record results?"

"No, let me show you what the tests are designed to do," Sherlock said suddenly, getting up and walking over to John with a test tube in his hand.

Pretty soon, the three of them were combining various chemicals – indicators, according to Sherlock – running flame tests, and dipping litmus paper into the samples. John found himself recording moreso than experimenting in the end; he had moved himself away from Sherlock's microscope and test tubes and was writing out their observations on a pad of paper.

"Are you okay?" Molly asked. John looked up, but she was directing the question at Sherlock. "You look a bit sad."

"I'm fine." Sherlock's expression was guarded; his tone of voice curt.

"No, you aren't. You've got a bit of a slump to your shoulders. I've seen you when you're working on a case; you're usually so excited. You'd never slump."

Sherlock was silent. Molly seemed to take that as encouragement to continue.

"You keep looking at him, when you're not looking through the microscope. I think I know what you're feeling."

"How?" Sherlock's voice was faint.

"I've felt it with you." Molly shrugged. "You treat me so awfully, all the time. And despite that, despite better judgement, I'm always slouching when you're not around and I'm always looking in your direction –"

"Yes, I'd noticed that."

"But you're not noticing it in yourself."

Sherlock was silent again. After a moment, he spoke.

"What do you want me to do? I messed up."

"How?"

"I told him it was a mistake, how he felt."

"It's not." A heartbeat. "Sorry."

"No. It's fine. I…" Sherlock heaved a sigh. "It's not a mistake for him, but… for me it feels like…"

"It only feels wrong because you don't know what it feels like; you've never felt it before."

More silence. "I see," Sherlock said quietly after a moment. Then, in a louder voice, he asked, "what do we have so far?"

"Gravel, brick dust, coal, flaky soil."

"What type of flaky soil? Colour, more texture."

"Kind of grayish, a bit like the gravel," John spoke up. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"That's a very common type of soil, but it also happens to be found only in one area nearby Buckingham Palace." He grabbed his scarf and coat. "Come on!"

As John left the laboratory, he could hear Sherlock thanking Molly behind him.

* * *

><p>"This entire district is the closest we get to Buckingham with that type of soil. We only have to narrow it down to a place that has all four components as well as a hotel or a residential area overlooking the railroad."<p>

It only took them minutes to find the hotel in question. Looking up at the whitewashed establishment on St. George's Drive, John felt a distinct sense of déjà-vu.

Sherlock entered the house and checked the guestbook, gesturing for John to follow. "Look here. Checked in the night of the murder… Sebastian Moran and Piers Parker. Adjacent rooms." He flashed his identification card – the real one – at the Innkeeper, explained what he needed to do, and dragged John upstairs.

The stairs were winding, narrow, but the rooms in question both had balconies overlooking the train tracks. The balcony of Sebastian Moran was still discoloured from bloodstains. "How did they get the body here, then?" John asked quietly. "From Buckingham Palace to here… how?"

"That's not important," Sherlock muttered. "What's important is that the case is closed. The two of them checked into these rooms on the night of the murder for the sole excuse of disposing the body onto the train. West could have gone on for ages had the train not swayed and thrown him off the top. That's how he landed near the train lines without a ticket or an Oyster card."

"And I guess perhaps the Innkeeper doesn't know or was paid to keep silent or whatever," John agreed. They sat in the room in silence, Sherlock still looking at the stained balcony. "Wow."

"Yes." Sherlock nodded. "I suppose that's that, then."

"So you'll tell Mycroft that Moriarty has the Key?"

Sherlock shrugged. "He may already know that."

* * *

><p>They had dinner at a chic Italian restaurant on Northumberland Street that night. Sherlock found himself pleating his napkin as the Waiters bustled around them. The Restaurateur had greeted them personally, jovially pointing out that Sherlock had partially cleared his name by proving that he hadn't been guilty of several nasty murders but rather a nasty housebreaking that had ended with a M.A.T.I.N. nearly biting off his leg a couple months ago. Sherlock had to wince in sympathy at that; his arm was still tender although the wounds had healed in time for the masquerade.<p>

"They have an new mechanic Chef," Sherlock noted over a plate of spaghetti smothered in carbonara sauce. John looked up from his own pasta, eyebrows raised.

"Really?"

"The taste's slightly different. Nothing worse or better, just… more mechanised. They make their own pasta, see, and the difference between machine-pulled and hand-pulled pasta is quite obvious in the texture. Looks like Mycroft's finally getting around to approving the new menial-labour droids."

"Oh, lovely," John muttered.

"Did you hear anything from your sister lately?"

"She's doing fine, I think. Told me she's seeing a woman named Clara." Sherlock smirked at that. John raised an eyebrow. "What? After hearing about the Princess and the Courtesan I don't think I'll ever be shocked at that again."

"Really? And what about…" Sherlock trailed off. John frowned.

"What about what, Sherlock?"

"What if I was to say that I…" John's frown deepened, but suddenly his eyes went wide. One of Sherlock's hands had moved under the table and was trailing up John's leg.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?" Sherlock feigned innocence.

"Is this one of your experiments?"

"Why would you say that?"

"Because there is no other way to explain why your hand is moving up my leg under the table at an Italian restaurant."

"Oh, I could think of other reasons," Sherlock replied breezily. "You haven't eliminated the impossible yet."

"What do you mean?"

"When you've eliminated the impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." Sherlock turned to smirk at him. John felt a frisson of excitement shoot up his spine. "What are your options?"

"That this is an experiment, or you're actually interested."

"Mm, good. Which one is the impossible?"

John paused, thinking. Which one, indeed?

"How much did you hear of the conversation this afternoon at Barts?"

John frowned. "A good deal, I think."

"I'll leave you to your deductions, then." Sherlock's hand moved away. John rather missed it. He started to think. Molly was telling Sherlock that he had been acting like…

"Oh."

John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock seemed very intent on eating his pasta. John sighed.

"What you said this morning, then, about… me making a mistake…"

"Mm." Sherlock didn't say anything other than that, so John continued.

"You only said that because you… couldn't believe it? That you were scared of commitment or a relationship or even just sentiment?"

"You're in sparkling form, John. Do go on."

"So you've never had any emotional attachments, relationships before and you're scared because… because I'm the first."

Sherlock looked up, nodding. "Exactly."

John's mouth dropped open, happiness welling inside him partly because he got it right and partly because – oh, he must be dreaming, he must. There was no way on earth that Sherlock bloody Holmes was attracted to him. That Sherlock bloody Holmes could possibly even be in love with him.

"Tell me I'm dreaming," John choked out. Sherlock frowned.

"Why would I do that? You're perfectly awake." As if to prove it, he reached out and pinched John's leg. It hurt.

"I… I don't know…. I don't know what to say, really. It's…" John sighed, turning back to his pasta. "It's just… I'm… well…"

"John." Sherlock looked around, as if trying to ensure that they weren't being watched. "John, I have no idea what we're supposed to do next."

"And to be honest with you, I don't either. I've never done anything like this with a bloke. You know, that bourgeois upbringing that you seem to hate –"

"I don't hate it; I just think it's unnecessarily restrictive."

"Whatever." John laughed weakly, leaning in. "So I guess we're just… totally clueless about it, both of us." He was getting closer and closer to Sherlock's lips, and everything else in the world had suddenly blurred out until it was just Sherlock and how he made John's heartbeat quicken in his chest. "But in the meantime… I'd really like to kiss you."

"You're already well on your way to it. I don't see any reason to stop you now," Sherlock murmured, and closed the distance.

* * *

><p>Mycroft turned away from the surveillance droid, rolling his eyes. He'd have to send something over to congratulate the two of them. A fruit basket seemed to be in order.<p>

"Sherlock told me to bring you this," Lestrade said as he opened the door to the office, dropping the file onto Mycroft's desk. The Detective Inspector yawned widely and flopped into a chair. "My god, I'll be glad when we get to the bottom of the Richard Adair case."

"As will I," Mycroft replied calmly, scanning the contents of the file. "I see."

"What?" Lestrade looked up. Mycroft smiled enigmatically. "It doesn't concern me, I hope?"

"It could. It's got something to do with Andrew West, though."

"Ah." Lestrade leaned back. "Not my division."

"Shall we go get some coffee?" Mycroft asked, putting the file into his briefcase and snapping it shut with a click. "Or I can treat you to dinner on the new A.S._ Diogenes_."

"Seriously?"

"I hear the service is even better than that on the A.S. _Gloria Scott_," continued Mycroft. "We could even stay overnight. The _Diogenes_ leaves its hangar for its maiden air cruise from London to Venice in an hour, and the cruise lasts for about three days. Say the word and I will reserve staterooms in first class."

"I… Mycroft, why are you doing this?"

"Because I need a holiday, you need a holiday, and the _Diogenes_ provides a perfect holiday for the two of us." Mycroft winked. "What do you say?"

"Oh _god_, yes."


	23. Several Months Later

**Part XXII**

_Several Months Later_

**VICTORY OVERSEAS!**

Several of our brave Soldier boys scored a long-awaited and well-deserved victory over the Turkish Sky Corsairs at the Strait of the Dardanelles last Tuesday. Their bravery and mettle have at long last come to worth. The enemy ship plummeted into the engulfing Black Sea, to be heard from no more. Finally, one more set of barbarians will no longer invade our airships and rob our merchants.

The man responsible for strategising the daring manoeuvres is none other than Colonel James 'Jamie' Moriarty, older brother of the renowned Maths Professor and the much less renowned Railway Stationmaster. Moriarty has declined to comment about how he came up with the masterstrokes, but another Officer who will remain unnamed says that it was all "sheer genius" on Moriarty's part. Fitting, with a brother like his.

The battle had been, according to witnesses, long but beautiful… (_continued on page 9_)

**CORSAIR SHIP SEIZED OVER ALEXANDRIA**

The 66th Berkshire Regiment seized an Afghan Sky Corsair ship over Alexandria on Thursday. This victory, following so swiftly on the heels of the victory at the Dardanelles, suggests that perhaps the tide has turned on this war and we may be able to subdue those Turkish heathens for once and for all!

The regiment seized the ship while on nighttime patrol over the Military Base at Alexandria. The Corsairs had obviously been there to either conduct espionage or to attack, and it was fortuitous that the Soldier stationed at lookout, Hamish Brown, had happened to notice the ship through his spyglass. When asked about what he thinks could have happened had he not spotted it, Brown says that… (_continued on page 6_)

* * *

><p>Summer was in full bloom; with the sunshine and the victories abroad the overall morale of the Empire rose. With total war averted, the nation carried out business as usual. The newspapers slowly resumed printing salacious tidbits of gossip and libel alongside the steady flow of propaganda.<p>

One particular morning found John Watson, former Army Surgeon and now Protector Assistant, lying in bed fast asleep. Beams of sunlight caressed his face, angelic in slumber. His nightshirt hung off his left shoulder, exposing metal. Beneath plates of steel there was the whisper of gears and clockwork.

The other occupant of the room was next door, in the bath. Their flat was one of the few in the area with proper running water, something that made the rent higher but the living easier. The older parts of London, the ones not undergoing "urban renovation" (more like an excuse for the Factories to mass-produce houses), often lacked utility upgrades but made up for it with history and a more unique architecture.

But that wasn't going through the other man's head. What was, though, was just exactly how bored he was and how much he needed a new case.

It'd only been three days since the last one, the one that John had entitled "the Blind Merchant" in his diary. But even so, Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective extraordinaire, was raring for the next case already. The Blind Merchant case had involved figuring out, at the behest of a Merchant named Sebastian Wilkes, why the crew of his cargo airship kept disappearing. Turned out that they were all part of an opium smuggling ring controlled by a woman named Shan – Shan escaped, but the next morning the mystery had thickened with Inspector Gregson at the Yard discovering her body in an abandoned warehouse. The captured smugglers had all been incarcerated, and subsequently found dead in their jail cells. The bullets used to kill them were soft-nosed, expanding bullets – the same type used to kill the Honourable Ronald Adair months ago.

After finishing his bath, Sherlock stepped out, towelled himself dry, and wrapped himself in his dark blue dressing-gown. He strode back into the bedroom to find that John was still asleep. Taking a seat on the bed next to his Protector – just a Protector? It'd been months since the first kiss; wouldn't John be his boyfriend by now? – Sherlock let the barest of smiles creep onto his face.

Yes, it'd been months since their first kiss, but he still remembered every moment in between then and now. Whenever he felt overwhelmingly bored, he would pull up the memories from his mind palace – he'd dedicated a whole wing to John Hamish Watson – and think back, think back to stolen glances and kisses in darkened rooms and alleys, to chasing down criminals hand-in-hand, to heady kisses in Baker Street. But he never allowed himself to dwell overlong on these memories – sentiment still frightened him; emotions still felt alien to him.

Sherlock sighed, brushing away a stray strand of hair from John's face. He got up and started getting ready for the day.

When John woke up ten minutes later, he felt a distinct lack of Sherlock by his side. Sitting up, he noticed that Sherlock's dressing-gown was gone and that the towels on the nearby chair looked damp. A hazy mist still hung in the air, smelling of Sherlock's favourite soap. John inhaled, smiling dorkily. Obviously the Consulting Detective had recently taken a bath and was now lounging about in casual clothes and dressing-gown. John always loved it when he could apply Sherlock's own deductive logic to figure things out.

After throwing on a pair of casual slacks and his own dressing gown, John stepped out of their room. As he made his way to the kitchen in the hopes of finding tea without dormice in the teapot or ladyfingers without actual lady fingers in the tin, John could hear Sherlock conversing with someone in the sitting room. But that someone didn't sound like a client.

"Thank'ee kindly, sir!" As John entered the sitting room with a mug of tea, he noticed that a young girl with an inordinate amount of dirt on her face was sitting in his chair. She was dressed in threadbare, obviously second-hand clothing, and sported a tarnished and tattered aviator's cap on her head. Despite that, her wild red hair and bright green eyes were brimming with excitement and pride.

"So here's the sovereign," Sherlock was saying as John took a seat at the table behind him, "and here's an extra twopence for getting me the information so quickly." The Detective looked up, saw John, and smiled. "Good morning, John!"

John smiled back. "Morning, Sherlock. Who's this?" He gestured to the girl sitting in his chair.

"Samantha Wiggins, sir, at yer service!" the girl chirped, saluting John with a chipped-tooth grin. "I'm the leader uv' the Baker Street Irregulars!"

"The orphan network," explained Sherlock. "The Orphanages in London tend to let their charges run free during the summer months. They generally don't have much to do with them anyway – these urchins run amok until they're sixteen and get Assigned jobs as Workers – so a fair bunch have become my eyes and ears about the city. They're good at handling the surveillance droids."

"How do they do that?" John asked, wincing slightly as he watched Samantha coat grime all over his armchair.

"There're some that'll help ya when yer lookin' fer someone, an' there're others that ya gotta avoid," Samantha replied enigmatically. "'S all a matter o' knowing which ones are on yer side. They're almost like us."

"I can imagine they do their job well," John noted to Sherlock.

"They're better at observation than most Scotland Yarders," Sherlock replied, handing Wiggins her money. She went skipping out the door with loud thank-yous and goodbyes, her satchel bouncing up and down with her every move. John moved over to his chair and decided to wipe it down before resuming his seat.

"What was she giving you information on?" he asked as he went to fetch a towel.

"You'll see in a moment," Sherlock muttered enigmatically. He seemed to be in a thinking mood. John knew it was better to let him be, so he cleared his chair of grime and went back into the kitchen to make himself toast with jam.

Sherlock brushed past him just as the lever from the toaster clicked back up and the indicator arrow on the side announced that the toast was ready. The Consulting Detective made a beeline for his room, and as John fetched a jar of strawberry jam and smothered his toast in it, he could hear him fumbling through the closet.

"What are you doing?"

"Disguises," Sherlock called. Moments later, he was back with a box of books under his arm. He set it on the side counter, the only surface that wasn't covered in chemistry equipment.

"Disguises?" John echoed. Sherlock disappeared into his room again.

When the Consulting Detective finally emerged, he was wearing a ginger wig, a monocle, a tartan frock coat over a pretentiously frilly white shirt and leather vest, and a set of grey tweed knickerbockers. But his boots were the crowning touch. One look at the sparkly silver monstrosity, and John burst into hysterical laughter, nearly upsetting his tea in the process.

"And what exactly are you?" he asked, eyes fixated on the brilliantly sequined boots.

"Benedict Azrael, extremely reclusive Bookseller?" Sherlock asked, shrugging.

"Reclusive enough to miss the memo that sequined shoes were definitely last decade," John snorted.

"Oh sod off, they're family heirlooms."

That only made John laugh harder. Sherlock sent him a withering glare, but John quickly sobered up anyway.

"Why are you in disguise again?"

"Why don't we take a cab to somewhere else in town? I'll explain it to you later." Sherlock strode back into his room, fumbled around in his closet some more, and came back with the clockwork droid they had received from Violet Hunter months ago. "We could pay Miss Hunter a visit, for one. I hear she's settled down quite nicely."

* * *

><p>Violet Hunter had married a Teacher, the headmaster of a school in Walsall. Summer holidays meant he wasn't at school, but he apparently had some family business to tend to in Devonshire and she had opted out of accompanying him because she was fixing an entire menagerie of M.A.T.I.N.s.<p>

Toby, the bloodhound M.A.T.I.N., ran up to John barking eagerly. John laughed and reached down to pat its metallic head. Sherlock's mouth twitched in a barely perceptible smile as he gave Violet the droid with his instructions.

"Well, I…" she was saying once John tuned in, "I don't work with moulds very much, but I've a friend who does. Oscar Meunier, Artist. I can call him over to create the likeness; would that be all right with you?"

"Would you require photographs?"

"Obviously. Does it have to be exact?"

"As exact as possible, but I think that colouration could be slightly off if needed." Sherlock fumbled with the parcel of books and pulled out a series of photographs from between two of them. "Will these do?"

"Splendidly, I think. You're very thorough, Mr. Holmes."

"Of course." Sherlock nodded. "Come on, John."

"Won't you two stay for tea?" Violet asked.

John grinned. "I think that'd actually be a good idea," he said. "Come on, Sherlock, it's not often we get to catch up with a client, right?"

"The kettle's on already; it won't take long," Violet added helpfully. Sherlock sighed and unceremoniously dropped onto the sofa. John took a seat next to him.

"I see you've got a lot of work," John said as Violet returned from the kitchen with the tea-tray. She laughed and nodded, setting the tray down and pouring tea for them.

"Plenty, just plenty." Her eyes twinkled. "Bert leaves me well enough alone when I've got work, but he's always taking Basil and David with him. He likes them, I think."

"I suppose it's because he can use them to filch little trinkets," Sherlock mused. "Like that pen that's so obviously absent from your desk. You think you've lost it, don't you?"

Violet laughed. "Actually, yes, I was. I lose things all the time, so it wouldn't… so Bert stole the pen, did he?"

"He also stole the keys to the pantry, I suspect," Sherlock added, looking pointedly at the faint flour tracks left by the wheels of a clockwork mouse.

"He does love his midnight snacks," sniffed Violet. "Lovely bloke, though."

"I'm glad," John replied kindly.

Violet sipped her tea. "So, I hear that you two have been more than just Protector and charge for about three months now?"

John's cheeks heated up. "You could say that, I guess?"

"I called it." Violet grinned mischievously.

"What –" John nearly spat out his tea. Sherlock and Violet exchanged amused glances; the fake bouquiniste hid a smile behind his teacup.

"Congratulations," Violet continued, her eyes still twinkling. "I read about the Study in Pink the other day. So you're publishing cases? Will you discuss mine?"

"Maybe? Sherlock's brother says I should leave out the whole Anarchist thing, though, so it'd be heavily edited."

"They won't be able to discern the difference," sniffed Sherlock. "John takes what's supposed to be a treatise on my deductive prowess and turns it into a romanticised adventure."

"People like that sort of thing," John and Violet replied immediately. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I heard the subscriptions to _Strand Magazine_ increased substantially since the publishing of that case," Violet added. "I mean, it does provide a good distraction from everything else in the media."

"Reams of propaganda," sighed Sherlock. "I've never seen such horrendous reporting on the two victories abroad."

John laughed shortly. "Anyway, Violet, what was Sherlock asking you to do?"

"He wants a wax model," Violet replied, eyes flickering to Sherlock sipping his tea pensively. "Not sure why…"

"I need it as soon as possible. Time is of the essence," Sherlock stated, getting to his feet. "Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Ernest, but John and I simply must be going. I will come by in the late afternoon to pick up the finished model."

"All right." Violet got to her feet. "It's nice to see you again, Sherlock."

He nodded curtly, set his cup and saucer down, and left rather abruptly. John sighed, bending down to grab Sherlock's books.

"I'll see you around, then?" he asked Violet.

"Certainly."


	24. The Adventure of the Empty House

**Part XXIII**

_Come to Baker Street at half past twenty. Bring your least irritating officers with you.  
>SH<em>

Lestrade looked down at the textogram, sighing to himself. There were few officers at Scotland Yard who could get along with Sherlock Holmes – the last time Sherlock had required Yard backup (a circus raid as part of the Blind Merchant case) he had sent along Inspector Clouseau. Sherlock had stormed into his office after the raid and demanded Clouseau's Deassignment, claiming incompetence "so clumsy it makes Anderson look like a Ballerina."

He decided to go himself, bringing along Detective Inspectors Dimmock and Carter. They were two of the very few officers who could at least hold their tongue around Sherlock. The two of them were in uniform, with shiny brass buttons and utility belts, their caps proudly in place and goggles fixed over their eyes. Lestrade himself was in plainclothes.

"Are we going to 221B, sir?" Dimmock asked as they set out in one of the police cabs.

"No, he didn't specify where on Baker Street." Lestrade kept his eyes fixed on the road. Night was falling slowly; the conglomerations of steel and brass buildings reflected the dusky hues of twilight. Moments later, they had pulled up at Baker Street to see a light glowing upstairs in the flat and the faint silhouette of Sherlock Holmes by the window.

"He seems to be in; we should go check," Carter muttered. There was a ding as Lestrade's phone received another textogram.

"No use." Lestrade held up the message. "We're supposed to wait across from the entrance to Camden House." He paused. "That's behind Baker Street. We'll put the cab away."

They parked it in an alleyway and walked towards the empty Camden House, stationing themselves in the shadows across the street from the front door. From their position they could make out a much clearer silhouette of Holmes upstairs.

"He's still not noticed us." Dimmock frowned. "Why would he call us here if he's just going to stare –?"

There was another ding, and Lestrade read the resulting message with a grin. "He's telling you to shut up, Dimmock, lest you give the game away."

Dimmock groaned, but he subsided.

The three Detective Inspectors continued to loiter across from the entrance, looking up and down the alley for suspicious people. Lestrade answered another textogram from Sherlock (Make sure you're not seen, for cog's sake I don't want to deal with another Clouseau fiasco. –SH) with a wry grin. Farther down the street two men appeared to be taking shelter from a sudden brick wind in the doorway of a house. Dimmock fingered his pistol nervously. Carter tapped his feet and wrung his hands.

Lestrade noted, when his fob watch indicated twenty-three hours, that the men down the street had disappeared. He gave it no further thought.

"I say," whispered Carter. "Aren't the reports from the prison murders coming in today?"

"Soft-nosed, expanding bullet. Dum-dums, from India," Lestrade whispered back. "Shush."

There was a distinct and sudden noise. Immediately the three policemen were on their guard, listening and watching intently. A shadow opened the door to Camden House and slipped inside. Footsteps sounded on a creaky old staircase. Dimmock bit his lower lip in apprehension.

Lestrade watched Sherlock's silhouette. It moved suddenly, turning from front-facing to profile. It raised a cup of tea to its mouth and sipped.

There was a sudden loud whiz, the sound of a silenced bullet. The window shattered. The bullet hit Sherlock right in the temple. Lestrade nearly choked in surprise.

"Sherlock!" he gasped.

"We need to get into the house!" Carter insisted, already taking out a skeleton key from his utility belt. But when they got to the door it was luckily still unlocked. Taking no care to disguise their footsteps, the three policemen ran upstairs and into the room facing the back of Baker Street.

They saw Sherlock and John struggling with a man in the darkness. Dimmock turned on his torch. The light fell on the face of a man with tussled blond hair, cruel blue eyes, and a very fierce, hawk-like nose.

Carter dove into the fray, which cleared quickly with the blond man being handcuffed and John clutching his shoulder in pain. "Are you all right, John?" Sherlock demanded, swooping on his Protector Assistant.

"I'm fine; he just kinda… jammed the mechanical shoulder." John gave a grunt of pain. "I'm _fine_, Sherlock, don't worry."

"What in rivet's name is going on?" snapped Lestrade. "You were shot in the head!"

"No, I wasn't," Sherlock replied, the smugness oozing out of his voice.

"Clever bastard," hissed their prisoner.

"Why, thank you." Sherlock grinned. "Lestrade, let me introduce you to Colonel Sebastian Moran. Or rather, ex-Colonel. I do believe your antics in India had been less fighting for King and country and more shooting real tigers in the trees? No wonder you got Deassigned."

"What I've done is none of your business," spat Moran.

"Mm, yes, but now you've gone and walked into my tiger-trap. This empty house is my tree, and you're my tiger."

"What gave it away?"

"Oh, you've been giving yourself away months ago. Signed into the Edward House Hotel with your associate Piers Parker on the night you disposed of Andrew West's body, am I correct?"

Moran's silence was all the answer he needed, so Sherlock charged on. "And then the murder of the Honourable Ronald Adair around the same time, not to mention the more recent murders of General Shan, Antiquarian Soo Lin Yao, Merchant Edward Van Coon, and Reporter Brian Lukis – they were all done by you, weren't they? Targeted killings." He held up the gun that Moran had used – with a jolt, Lestrade recognised it as an air-gun. "All of them were killed by the same type of bullet. You played cards with Adair. He must have caught you cheating, but since he worked for the state and you work for a man tied to the Anarchists, two different motives could be used for his murder. The targeted killings only occurred after they were exposed, so those were obviously done to keep your master hidden."

"You have no proof," sneered Moran.

Suddenly a long metallic rod extended over from Baker Street. At the end was a claw grip, holding a bullet. Sherlock took it from the claw, smirking.

"The Sherlock you were firing at is a wonderfully-done wax facsimile of myself, crafted this very day by a talented but anonymous Artist. It was fixed onto the frame of a clockwork droid your master had attempted to use months ago to sabotage the Princess's Debutante Ball. This droid, once it had detected the presence of a bullet, had been programmed to return it to me." His smugness dripped from every word. "And – oh my, is that a soft-nosed, expanding bullet? You usually don't see those in air-guns, but no doubt that's how you managed to kill everyone else without causing a disturbance. I'm impressed."

"You'll be seeing me again," Moran spat.

"I hope you bring this gun with you again." Sherlock shouldered the air-gun with an infernal smirk on his face. "Von Herder, isn't it? How decidedly unpatriotic, ordering from blind German Mechanics."

"He was loyal to our cause."

"I see." Sherlock gestured for Dimmock to shine his torch onto Moran's wrists. One of them bore brand marks in the shape of a lit match. "I do hope no one shoots you in prison. No doubt you can still be useful to your master in there."

Moran was led away by Carter and Dimmock. Lestrade turned to glare exasperatedly at Sherlock. "So what exactly are we charging him with?"

"The murder of Ronald Adair has more connections than the others. Go for that one." Sherlock handed John the air-gun. "I hope you were intelligent enough to realise I couldn't give the game away by telling you that the Sherlock in Baker Street right now wasn't me?"

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, for a moment I thought you really had been shot and I was wondering what I'd say to your brother!"

"What were you going to say?" another voice cut in. Mycroft Holmes perched on the threshold into the room. "Sherlock, a letter from Mummy."

"You came this way to give me a letter from Mummy?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "I think I'm done here. I'll be going."

"See you later, Greg," Mycroft called after the Detective Inspector as he thumped back downstairs to meet up with Dimmock and Carter.

* * *

><p>Mycroft accompanied Sherlock and John back to Baker Street. John wondered what Mrs. Hudson would say about the broken window. No doubt she'd add it onto the rent, like how she added Sherlock's airbrushing the wall with a yellow smiley face and subsequent target practice onto the rent. Luckily for them, financial worries had been largely subdued by Mycroft lifting the restrictions on Sherlock's bank account the week after he and John had entered into a relationship. Mycroft obviously trusted John to make sure Sherlock didn't use the extra cash flow to buy more cocaine, and John made good on those expectations by hiding the vile seven-per-cent solution. Sherlock had yet to find it, but then again since the first kiss he had turned to John as a substitute for drugs whenever he was in his boredom slump.<p>

Sure enough, when they ascended the stairs they could distinctly hear Mrs. Hudson yelling something about adding the broken window to their rent. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"So," he said as soon as they were in the room and he had taken the dressing-gown off his wax replica (which now supported a dent in its forehead from the bullet) and swung it around his shoulders. "What the hell does Mummy want?"

"A visit." Mycroft handed him the letter. "She'd like to meet John."

"You told her?" Sherlock demanded.

"Why not?" Mycroft retorted. "You aren't ashamed of introducing him to Mummy, are you?"

Distinct spots of colour rose in Sherlock's cheeks. "Of course not –"

"Then good. She's expecting you back home tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!"

"You'll take the morning train south to Sussex, six o'clock sharp." Mycroft grinned evilly, handing them their tickets. "Don't forget to dress sharply."

"I hate you." Sherlock pouted, crossing his arms in a good imitation of a petulant five-year-old.

"The feeling is mutual, dear brother, the feeling is mutual." With a twirl of his umbrella, Mycroft left. John turned to Sherlock, eyebrows raised.

"I suppose we ought to go pack?" he asked. Sherlock glowered.

"Don't wanna," he muttered.

"Sherlock, you're making me die of curiosity." John laughed at Sherlock's deepening scowl. "Oh cogs and whistles, I've fallen in love with an overgrown five-year-old."

Sherlock said nothing, so John leaned over to kiss his forehead, smiling as he removed the scarf from around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock had changed out of his Bookseller disguise in the early evening, after positioning the droid into his seat and draping it in his dressing-gown.

"Is there any particular reason why you don't want me to meet your mother?" he asked.

"I haven't seen her in a while," Sherlock replied.

John took the letter from Sherlock and read it. "She doesn't seem very frightening in this letter."

"Deceptions." Sherlock uncrossed his arms to let John set the letter aside and entwine their fingers.

"I'll make sure you toe the line," John assured cheerily. He squeezed Sherlock's hands and let go. "Now we better go pack."

* * *

><p>By six the next morning, Sherlock and John were standing with their steamer trunks at King's Cross, waiting for their train. It rolled in on time, a scarlet steam engine belching smoke everywhere. Peering through the steam, Sherlock located their compartment quickly. John looked around them warily, like a good Protector Assistant.<p>

"Hand me your trunk," Sherlock told John, opening their compartment and hefting his valise into it. John did so; Sherlock loaded their luggage and then held the door open for John. They clambered inside; Sherlock immediately took up one row of seats and folded his coat to place under his head like a pillow.

John looked back down at the platform. Just then, through the haze of smoke and passengers rushing to and fro, he noticed someone familiar.

"Mary!" he called. The blonde turned at hearing her name, saw him, and waved. Mary Morstan was dressed in pink, with a frilly pink parasol and pink bonnet adorning her golden ringlets. She, too, carried a set of valises. John disembarked, running over to her and hugging her tightly.

"I haven't seen you in ages! Have you been well?"

"You sound cheerful," she remarked. "Sherlock's working wonders, I suppose?"

John flushed the exact shade of her parasol. "You could say that?" he mumbled. "Do you have a set compartment? If not, you could sit with us…"

"I'd love to!" Mary grabbed several of her bags. John lugged her trunk for her onto their compartment. The warning whistle blew. As he lugged the final case into their compartment, he noticed a dark-haired man farther down the platform. The man seemed to be looking around wildly in the pandemonium of the platform; John was pretty sure the man was Molly Hooper's beau.

"Morning, Miss Morstan," Sherlock drawled from his position. He was still sprawled over the seats. John groaned to himself and shifted Mary's belongings into the overhead compartment with their things as well. Mary smiled at Sherlock coldly; Sherlock stared back impassively. John looked between them, feeling a surge of affection for Mary and her sacrifice – despite her insistence months ago that he pursue a relationship with Sherlock, her personal opinion of the Consulting Detective had remained firmly lodged in the 'grudging respect' zone. Sherlock's attitude towards her spoke of the same sullen acceptance.

"So, where are you off to?" he asked Mary, in an attempt to break the ice.

"Brighton, to visit Uncle Thaddeus," Mary replied cheerily as she sat down next to John, across from Sherlock. "He'd have arranged an airship ride, but I hadn't been on a train in a while and I had tickets, so…"

"Well, that's nice. Bit of sea. Lovely." John grinned. "We're going to the South Downs."

"Got a case there?"

"Mm, no." John peered out the window, looking around. "Visiting Sherlock's family."

Mary laughed. "Oh! I didn't expect that." She smiled. "Have you met them before?"

"Not to my knowledge," John replied. The man who looked like Molly's beau had disappeared. John took his watch out of the pocket of his brown and beige-striped vest and looked at the time. Across from him, Sherlock fumbled in his satchel for his nicotine patches; John had replaced his pipe, tobacco, cigarettes, and cigars with them in an attempt to get him to stop poisoning his lungs. London was already polluted enough with the Factories.

After a moment of fumbling, the Consulting Detective pulled out the box. "Say, John, you seem quite nervous about something."

"Mm, yes, the train's not leaving."

"Is it supposed to leave?"

"By now, yes."

"You're looking out at the platform, too. Someone else you recognise?"

"Mm, Molly Hooper's boyfriend was there; I could have sworn it was him, at least –"

"Ex-boyfriend," Mary interjected.

John and Sherlock looked at her. "Ex-boyfriend? When did that happen?" Sherlock asked.

"Didn't you hear?" Mary asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't pay attention to trifles and gossip," he grumbled as he opened the box and pulled out a patch. Rolling up the sleeve of his silken purple shirt, he slapped a patch onto the exposed forearm and closed his eyes with a satisfied sigh.

"Train's definitely behind schedule. Five minutes since departure time. What's taking them so long?" John demanded, getting up and snapping his watch shut. "We haven't budged an inch –"

At that moment, the train lurched forward like a drunken leviathan. John fell back onto his seat with an undignified yelp. Mary giggled. Sherlock snickered, his eyes still closed.

They were on their way south.


	25. An Unlucky Train Ride

**Part XXIV**

As the train left the great steel towers and smoggy air of the city, the landscape outside grew steadily greener and greener. Sherlock seemed to be meditating, sprawled along his seat with his hands in his usual thinking pose. Mary was staring out the window; John peered out of his compartment door once in a while to glance up and down the hallway.

"You're very jumpy," Sherlock murmured. "I suppose it's got something to do with seeing Molly's ex?"

"I guess; he was giving me a rather… suspicious feeling."

"I should probably mention that I saw a crate of dynamite being hauled onto the train earlier?" Sherlock's eyes were still closed. "Looks like the type we found in Mr. Rucastle's basement –"

"And you didn't think to tell me this because?"

"Because if we're lucky, it'll have nothing to do with us."

John sighed. Being a Protector Assistant meant assuming that any threats made in the general area were directed at your charge. With a charge like Sherlock, chances are most of them were.

"Do try to relax. If you find anything that satisfies your suspicions, I trust you will get us to safety."

"That's comforting," John muttered. Mary sniggered.

The train rumbled through bucolic pastures and lush forests. It was heartening to see that the countryside still existed, especially after the smog-filled air of London. The sky above was almost as blue as Sherlock's eyes at the moment, as the Consulting Detective stared up at the rattling roof of their compartment.

"Excuse me," he said suddenly, getting up and swinging into his coat before stalking out of their compartment. John looked at Mary, shrugging.

"He does that," he explained as she quirked an eyebrow inquisitively. "How have you been, then? Looking forward to the next term?"

Mary laughed harshly, slouching down in her seat and fiddling with the ribbon on her bonnet. "_Hell _no," she sighed.

"Why?" he asked.

Mary rolled her eyes. "At the mid-summer meeting at our school we received the rosters for the next term. Everyone cringed at mine. There's a boy coming into my class who appears to be… a problematic child."

"How problematic?"

"He'd make every other problematic child look like an angel." Mary pouted. "And I'm quoting Westley Stoper. He had the boy last year."

"Oh dear." John shook his head. "What has he done?"

"Apparently he watches the older children dissect mechanical animals for science class and then he goes and does it himself. Except he doesn't just dissect them; he does it to them when they're alive. Rips them apart."

John winced. Everyone knew that machines had to be treated with respect; the dissecting specimens had all had their generators and memory plates removed prior to examination, and often they were reassembled afterwards. Mechanical animals were treated with care.

"He's also subject to being bullied by the other boys, which might make him seem a bit more… sympathetic? Except Mr. Stoper said that around Christmastime last year this boy had done something to the other boys that made them fear him. They used to torment him about wetting the bed, but now…" she sighed.

"What's the boy's name?" John asked.

Mary looked at him seriously. "Herman Rucastle."

"Rucastle!" John exclaimed, eyes wide. "I know him!"

"You do?"

"I'm pretty sure we're referring to the same Rucastle boy. Sherlock had to investigate his father several months ago and I heard he had been tormenting clockwork mice during our case. Sherlock said the boy was a bed-wetter."

"Coincidence?" Mary suggested.

"Possibly, possibly not. Either way, Sherlock said he was a psychopath in the making."

Mary's face paled. "Oh dear…"

She looked so morose that John put a comforting arm around her. "I'm sure you can convince him to behave. You're a very clever and persuasive woman, after all," he reassured.

Mary laughed ruefully. "You flatter me, John. I don't think that'd be enough."

"Hey, it's true. And we can hope."

The door to their compartment reopened at that moment. John withdrew his arm as soon as Sherlock entered, triumph gleaming in his eyes.

"Well?" John asked as Sherlock resumed his seat.

"Are you feeling lucky?" Sherlock asked.

John frowned. "What?"

"It's a simple question, John."

"I don't know, should I?"

"No." Sherlock steeped his fingers together in his thinking pose. "John, do you have the false moustache?"

"What?" John asked.

"The false moustache. I slipped it into a pocket on your utility belt this morning. Take it out and put it on." The Consulting Detective turned to Mary. "Miss Morstan, I need your clothes."

John and Mary both stared at him as if he'd grown two heads. "_Excuse me_?" Mary hissed.

"Quickly, Miss Morstan, we haven't a moment to lose." Sherlock was already undoing the buttons on his vest. "We need to exchange clothes."

"Sherlock, what on earth –"

"I'll explain in a moment!" Sherlock continued to stare pointedly at Mary until she huffed and started undoing her coat buttons. Satisfied, Sherlock averted his gaze to let her have some privacy. "It's a simple matter of fashioning three disguises in a short amount of time. John, the moustache is upside-down."

"Sorry." John scowled at Sherlock. Mary handed him her looking-glass. "Thanks." He reapplied the false moustache, patting it into place hastily and giving it a couple of contemplative strokes. "Now explain, Sherlock. Why are you making Mary switch clothes with you? Why do we need disguises all of a sudden?"

"Because we're not lucky," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly as he undid his boots and trousers and slid them off, folding up his clothes and handing them to a rather flabbergasted Mary. She had undone her dress and was making her way through her petticoats. "The corset, too, if you don't mind," Sherlock snapped, reaching over to help her unfasten it. John and Mary were both very pink with embarrassment at this point.

"What do you mean by we're not luck – oh." John was pointedly looking away from Sherlock and Mary as Sherlock put the corset on himself and Mary strung it up for him, pulling a little tighter than necessary. "The dynamite was meant for us?"

"Precisely. I'd stopped by the cargo hold on my way up and down the train. The cargo is stashed right before the junction with the next set of cars; this train has the unique design of cargo holds at both ends of every passenger car, probably to reduce the rate of losing valuables in the cargo holds if the train gets derailed. The crate in the cargo hold bears the Anarchist symbol – in fact, I do believe it's the same crate of dynamite we encountered in the basement of Copper Beeches."

"You think they're going to derail the train?"

"At least attempt to do so, yes," Sherlock muttered, rolling on Mary's stockings. Mary was clambering into Sherlock's trousers, rolling them up as she went. Sherlock started putting on the various petticoats. "As I went to the W.-C., I narrowly avoided a brick that fell from the second-storey seats. It could have been on purpose, or it could have been an accident. I'm inclined to think it was on purpose, because when's the last time you found a brick outside the cargo hold on a train?"

John raised an eyebrow. Mary undid her bonnet as Sherlock threw on the over-petticoat and the dress. Sherlock turned his back on John, gesturing to the fastenings. Rolling his eyes, John started hooking everything together.

"You look hilarious," Mary snorted as she wrapped Sherlock's scarf around her neck and grabbed John's bowler hat to hide her ringlets.

"Har har." Sherlock put on the bonnet. "As I was saying, though, when I went to the W.-C. I bumped into the man you saw on the platform."

"Jim the Teacher?"

"Mm, yes. Well, no. And yet…"

"What do you mean?"

"That wasn't him."

"So?"

"It was an impostor. Very cleverly done to look like him, but not him."

"How could you tell?"

"Obvious. When a person's hair is slicked back, it makes their forehead and hairline quite obvious. Jim's hairline has a very wide and rounded-out widow's peak, but the impostor doesn't have a widow's peak at all. Then there was a discrepancy between the eyebrows and hair – the hair is dark, yes, but on Jim his eyebrows are merely trimmed, while on the impostor the eyebrows are trimmed and pencilled in to look darker. Plus, her eyelashes aren't tinted, there's no taurine cream around her frown lines, and her watch is a fake."

"_Her_?" John echoed. "The impostor is a –"

"A woman, yes. Wider hips, curvier gait. It's an effective disguise from afar, but…"

"But disguises are always obvious with you." John rolled his eyes. "But how do you know she's dressed to look like Jim and not some other bloke who looks like him?"

"I dropped my phone. She picked it up for me. Obviously she's trying to fake his voice as well, and she stared at me in the same manner as he. And when she handed the phone to me, I could see the Anarchist symbol on her wrist. Jim himself may not be an Anarchist, but this woman is and she was obviously impersonating him." Sherlock gestured for Mary to apply some makeup onto his face; John had to snigger at the spectacle. "Shut up, John, next time you'll wear the dress."

"I hope we won't have to resort to cross-dressing for the next case, then," John replied cheerily. "You don't look too bad as a girl, though."

"The voice's a lost cause," Mary remarked. "Too low."

"Oh, shut up." Sherlock took a deep breath and started speaking in a breathy falsetto that had John and Mary screaming with laughter. "How the hell do you breathe in these death-traps, Mary? They're simply insufferable!"

"I don't know, but I respect Opera Singers for having to sing in them," Mary replied, grinning from ear-to-ear. Sherlock's clothes were slightly baggy on her, but then again his shirts were often rather tight on him. John wasn't sure if that was intentional.

There came a sudden knock at the door. "What is it?" John called.

A muffled voice came through the door. Sherlock listened intently. "Ah, a Porter," he muttered. "Here to check the tickets. Get the tickets, John."

John and Mary produced the tickets. Sherlock swung the door open and smiled sweetly at the Porter, batting his eyelashes. "Good morning, sir!"

"M'rnin'," muttered the Porter, doffing his hat briefly before stepping into the room. "T'ckets, please."

John handed him the tickets. The Porter looked oddly at all three of them.

"Oo's goin' t' Bright'n?"

"Me," Sherlock replied breathily.

"'N your name is?"

"Kratides, sir. Sophy Kratides."

The Porter nodded dubiously. "'N you two?"

"We're going to the South Downs," Mary replied in a deep voice. "My name's Martin."

"I'm Doctor…" John trailed off, trying to think of a suitable last name.

The Porter's eyes narrowed. "Doctor 'Oo?"

"Doctor… The Doctor!"

"The Doctor." The Porter's lips curled.

"Yes, I'm the Doctor." John nodded enthusiastically. "Martin here needed a bit of air; I was just accompanying him…"

As John distracted the Porter with a long-winded explanation for going to the South Downs to cure 'Martin's' rheumatism, Sherlock silently reached out and removed the pistol from the Porter's belt. He cast his gaze downwards, and slipped out the knife whose hilt was poking out of the Porter's boots. Grabbing both weapons, he slowly ascended until he was behind the Porter with both weapons pointed at him.

"John, shut the door."


	26. The Manor House by the Beach

**Part XXV**

John quickly did as he was told, causing the Porter to swing around in alarm just to be confronted with the weapons. Sherlock kept the pistol trained on him as he handed the knife to John. Then without warning, the Consulting Detective struck the Porter in the jaw. He went down like a house of cards.

"Quickly," Sherlock hissed at Mary, nodding to the door. "Check to make sure she didn't bring backups."

Mary grabbed the pistol and moved towards the door, looking through the blinds warily. No one seemed to be in the corridor. "No one," she reported.

"Unlikely. They're probably hiding, waiting for a signal from this woman." Sherlock flung off the hat, revealing the Jim impersonator. He then started scrubbing at the face and forehead, removing the adhesive that fastened the dark wig and the pencilling that defined and darkened the brows.

Right before their eyes, 'Jim' became a woman with sandy blonde hair. John grabbed Mary's smelling-salts, and at a nod from Sherlock, revived her.

She opened dark eyes, blinked, noticed Sherlock holding her wig, and made a lunge for it. Sherlock's hand shot out and seized her wrists. She glowered up at him. "Mr. Holmes," she sneered.

"Mrs. Rucastle," Sherlock replied cheerily. "The contacts must be irritating you; do feel free to dispose of them." Turning to John, he added, "That was another thing I noticed. She had colour contacts to disguise her eye colour; it was obvious by the irritation around her eyes and how often she blinked as I passed her in the hall."

"Fantastic," John breathed, as Mrs. Rucastle disposed of her contacts and glared venomously at them. "How'd you know it was her?"

"You saw her, months ago. The Baker Street Irregulars gave me information on her movements. She'd been keeping an eye on us for her masters; Wiggins caught her talking to Moran the night before yesterday's events." Sherlock turned to Mrs. Rucastle, grinning predatorily. "So you thought to dress up as a man? Well, Ms. Helen Stoner, four can play at that game. Although I'm curious – why dress up like the ex-boyfriend of a Pathologist at Bart's?"

Helen Stoner glowered, but said nothing.

"Is it because you're connected to him? I don't work off gut feelings, but I could tell there's more to him than what meets the eye. Is this the case?" Pause. "You won't tell me? Fine. Tell me who else is involved in sabotaging the train."

Silence. John pointed the knife at her. She raised an eyebrow in amusement but still said nothing.

"It doesn't matter, really; I know where the dynamite is. In any case, was it ever just a simple derailing? I caught a sign of your plans while I was loitering in the W. –C." Sherlock looked over at Mary. "They're waiting for your signal, aren't they?"

More silence. Sherlock gestured for Mary to return to the seats. He walked over to the other side of the train, swung the door open, and peered out. The morning sun was rising quickly; the wind nearly blew the bonnet off his head. Smirking, Sherlock grabbed Helen and raised her up to eye-level with him.

"One last chance, Mrs. Rucastle. Are you going to tell us who's behind this train heist?"

She glared defiantly. "Over my dead body," she hissed.

"That can be arranged," Sherlock replied calmly, dragging her over to the side of the train just as it started traversing a bridge overlooking a vast lake. Without further ado, he threw her out.

As Sherlock slammed the door shut, he paused, frowning. John and Mary stood behind him in shocked surprise.

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"Did you just throw her out of a train?" John asked.

"Yes, but we were passing over water."

"You just threw a person out of a train."

"No _really_, John."

"What if she dies?"

"Is it any of your concern? She could have killed us." Sherlock frowned deeper, counting under his breath. Faintly, he heard a clicking noise. And then –

"_Vatican cameos_!" He yelled without warning, whirling around and ducking. John grabbed Mary and ducked into the space between the seats as well as the sound of several rifles went off. Mary squeaked in fright, clutching at her ears. John clutched onto her, protecting her. Sherlock closed his eyes; he seemed to be counting under his breath.

"What the hell is going on?" John demanded as the smoke cleared and they raised their heads to see bullet holes all throughout their compartment. "Why are they…?"

"Someone knew we'd be taking this train to get to Sussex. They also expected that I'd manage to find the impersonator and throw her from the train because she wasn't revealing the plans." A pause. Sherlock snuck over to the door and looked up and down the hallway. "Those are what they were expecting, but they won't be expecting us to disguise ourselves as well. Quick, to the cargo hold."

They dove into the corridor and walked along it in absolute silence. "The gunmen are on the second storey. Don't look up," Sherlock whispered as they made their way to the front of their car.

John had to marvel at Sherlock's timing, because as soon as they had left the vicinity of their compartment, the shooting began again.

"They were reloading!" Mary breathed as they finally stumbled into the cargo hold.

"Yes, I saw their arsenal hidden in the ventilation ducts when I went to the loo." Sherlock cast about, searching for the crate of dynamite. "I calculated the amount of ammunition required for each rifle and the amount of time it would take to reload all of them before a renewed assault. It's painfully obvious." Smirking, he leaned against the dynamite crate. "Now, to dispose of this!"

John stumbled over to the sliding doors on the other side of the room, unlocked them, and slid them open. Sherlock and Mary started shoving the crate towards the door. John joined them. Footsteps ran from outside the cargo hold; the gunmen must have noticed their escape and were rushing to prevent them from sabotaging their sabotage.

Mary grabbed the revolver; John drew his as well and pointed it at the door. Sherlock continued to heave the box towards the door. The train was passing through another forest by now; off in the distance hovered several recreational flyers, people who strapped wingpacks to their backs and leapt off hills for fun, trying to get a good breeze to stay afloat. Sherlock heaved the crate to the edge of the train just as the pounding on the door began. John and Mary had barricaded it. They ran to Sherlock's side and helped him pick up the crate.

"On three!" Sherlock shouted, his voice nearly lost in the rush and the wind. "One, two, three!"

The crate was flung out of the train and down the side of the hill. As Sherlock slid the door closed once more he could see sheep fleeing from an explosion that rapidly faded from sight.

"Call the police," he gasped to John, clutching at his corseted abdomen. "Call the actual train workers."

John nodded.

* * *

><p>By the time the train pulled into the station at Lewes, Sherlock and Mary were back in their own clothes. Sherlock and John would disembark at this station to change trains; Mary would go on to Brighton. It was already early afternoon.<p>

"Keep in touch, won't you?" John asked Mary as they prepared to disembark. The train was slowing to a stop at the platform, and Sherlock had already spotted the train that would take them down to Seaford. "I mean it. If you notice anything odd or dangerous, or if something happens, tell us."

"All right," she agreed, smiling tentatively at Sherlock. He nodded. Their begrudging respect had warmed into proper mutual respect. A good start.

Sherlock and John disembarked with their valises and boarded the second train. As they situated themselves in a new compartment, the one they came from took off to the southwest, towards Brighton.

The train journey from Lewes to Seaford was uneventful, and by the time they disembarked in the quiet seaside town it was already mid-afternoon. A brougham was waiting at the station for them, the mechanical horses patiently nickering as Sherlock and John boarded. The coachman pulled the lever, and off they went.

Small towns like Seaford were less industrialised than cities like London – in fact, Seaford was practically behind the times. The streets were still cobbled; the houses still unique and fashioned out of a variety of different materials. Not everything was brass and wood and leather and steel – here in Seaford there were seashells plastered into the walls and live gulls crying along the beach. Metallic gulls seemed rare.

They left Seaford and headed southeast, towards greater and greater wilderness. The houses fell away very soon and then it was just long grass, wind, and a beautifully balmy sky. Slowly, the marshlands began to appear with mud and sludge everywhere. The horses got stuck once or twice.

John and Sherlock were content, though, to just sit there side-by-side in companionable silence. There wasn't much to say that couldn't be said later. Their fingers were entwined; Sherlock soon dozed off on John's shoulder and John smiled, kissing his charge's unruly dark curls before turning to gaze at the beauty of Sussex.

As the shadows slowly started to lengthen, their brougham turned from the main road onto a smaller, even less paved country road. The marsh framed both sides. Slowly on the horizon, the sea came into view.

Sherlock woke when they got closer to the sea, when the first signs of white beach and chalk cliffs came into view. The Consulting Detective looked towards them pensively, the late afternoon breeze stirring his curls. John followed his gaze to see a long, low, heavily-gabled house.

"Is that?"

"My old family home? Yes." Sherlock seemed distant, as if remembering childhood memories. He fumbled in his satchel and drew out Benedict, the glass skull music box.

"You brought him with you." John raised an eyebrow in amusement.

"He and I are returning home; why not?" Sherlock wound the skull, still looking contemplative.

The road led towards the house near the foot of the cliffs. Sherlock had put Benedict away as soon as they arrived, leaping out of the carriage and helping John out before seizing their valises. The coachman unharnessed the mechanical horses and directed them towards the stables, which had been partitioned between mechanical and live horses. It was easy to tell which section held actual horses; there was a distinct smell of excrement and mouldy hay there.

Holmes Manor itself seemed to have taken its origins in a simple country cottage. Over the ages, it had grown and grown – more outwards than upwards – until it was both stately and expansive. As noted from farther away, it had numerous gables and even a small tower off to the side, as well as the stables set off to the side from the main house. They had traversed a long straight path up towards the manor house; on both sides of the walk sat expanses of long marsh grass, rippling like the waves of the ocean not too far away.

A woman who was undoubtedly Sherlock's mother was waiting for them at the front doors. As they ascended the steps with their valises, she perked up and walked over to greet them, her eyes twinkling with warmth and intelligence.

"Sherlock, finally home!" the woman enclosed him in a brief hug and pecked at his forehead. She had Mycroft's auburn hair but Sherlock's distinctive cheekbones. "Is this your boyfriend John?"

Sherlock flushed bright pink. John sniggered. "Well, actually, I'm officially his Protector Assistant, er… Lady Holmes."

"What am I a lady of these days?" she sighed. "Queen of the marsh, living in isolation down here. Sherlock, you naughty boy, never coming down to visit Mummy." John could have sworn she was going to reach out and smush her son's cheeks. Thankfully she didn't.

"Mycroft visits monthly," Sherlock pointed out.

"And you never come." Mrs. Holmes sighed. "Other than Christmas, which doesn't count. Shall we?" She gestured for two clockwork droids to take their luggage.

"I've taken to replacing the servants with droids as they leave, whether involuntarily or not," she continued as they entered the rather dim entrance hall. The ceiling was vaulted; it gave an overall feeling of gloom and loneliness. "Only humans left are Martha the housekeeper and Guildford the coachman. Even the stable lads are robotic. Took a while for the horses to adjust – but then again, the horses have to be replaced, too."

"You don't ask for Assignments?" John asked curiously.

"What for? Mycroft's slowly approving the patents for menial-labour droids; people aren't being Assigned to those spots as often anymore. Besides, Martha and Guildford have been with the family for ages. Their ancestors worked for our ancestors…" she sighed. "I trust you two will be sharing a room?"

"Yeah, I think so," John replied.

"All right. Get yourselves settled. Dinner will be ready in an hour or two."

"Thank you, uh, Mrs. Holmes."

"It's Amélie. Or, if you prefer, Mummy."

* * *

><p>Sherlock's room was spacious, to say the least. He occupied the tower almost in its entirety, commanding views of marshland and white cliffs and a sprawling garden behind the house. John could see beehives out back.<p>

"Beekeeping?" he asked.

"Great-great-great-granduncle kept bees," Sherlock replied. "Wrote a book about it that's in the study. Mummy's keeping up the tradition, too. Besides, it means good honey for toast and tea."

John looked around at the airy, circular room. The ceiling was high, with pale blue walls and sheer white drapes. A cast iron staircase spiralled up to upper floors. The large four-poster was well-made but obviously rarely used; the furniture was very recently dusted.

"Bathroom and study are upstairs," Sherlock said, gesturing to the staircase. "Three storeys; the third storey I liked to use as an observation deck and storage room."

John couldn't help but picture a little Sherlock living in these rooms – playing up and down the three storeys of his tower bedroom and looking out into the great marshland, dreaming of adventure. The grown-up Sherlock was surveying the sparse décor – a very early periodic table that merely had the elements listed by alphabetical order, a chart of butterfly species, the cross-section of a clockwork droid. He set Benedict on the nightstand, before ascending the stairs. John followed.

The second floor was more cluttered, more dusty. Several tables and chairs were laid out and gathering dust; the glass of the beakers and phials were speckled somewhat. Forgotten experiments were tucked away; a huge filing cabinet stood in the corner with drawers still out. Sherlock looked around, brushed off the dust from a tome on botany, and ascended the stairs once more.

The third floor was the most cluttered of all, with boxes and crates and oodles of long-since-dried paint. A kid's easel stood in the corner; cogs and wheels were strewn on faded, yellowing newspaper. A closet of dress-up outfits sat next to the easel, moth-eaten and worn. The walls here bore photographs of a wee Sherlock, bright-eyed and beaming. John brushed the dust off of one of the photographs and smiled at the sight of the little Consulting Detective dressed as a Sky Pirate.

"Childhood aspiration?" he asked, gesturing to the photograph. Sherlock coloured, but nodded. He removed the dust covering from a brass telescope and its stand, smiling.

"I thought you didn't care about the stars," John said, gesturing to the telescope.

"I didn't look at the stars." Sherlock picked it up and trained it on the horizon. "At least, not unless they were used for navigation at sea."

The third floor had a patio accessible by a set of French doors. John opened them and stepped out, looking towards the sea. The sun was setting by now, casting pale reds and golds across the sky. It was not as dramatic as London sunset, because there was less pollution – in fact; the salty sea air was clean, pure. Refreshing.

"It's too calm," Sherlock muttered, joining John on the patio. "Too peaceful. I needed excitement, so when Mycroft inherited the family job I went with him to London. Got an Assignment."

John nodded. "I see," he said after a moment. "And how old were you then?"

"Sixteen." Sherlock looked at John, his eyes saying so much that John couldn't read. He felt breathless for a moment, trying to decode what Sherlock was trying to tell him with his eyes.

But after a moment, the Consulting Detective blinked, shook his head. "We should go. I could show you the study if you'd like? It's where my great-great-great-granduncle concluded one of his last cases before his retirement."


	27. Dichotomy

**Notes: **A quick reminder about the prevalence of mechanical animals - the humans in this world, in their drive to industrialise, have hunted nearly all of the animals to extinction. Mechanical animals are therefore used to maintain a semblance of order and to provide extra scrap metal if necessary. In rural areas like Sussex, true animals still exist. Any consumer animal products come from animals purposefully bred for consumption, just like processed animal products today.

* * *

><p><strong>Part XXVI<strong>

The study was easily the most magnificent room in the entire house, with books lining the oak-panelled walls. Several comfortable-looking couches sat to the side before a magnificent oak desk and a high-back chair. The dark green drapes were drawn over the windows, which faced the sea and the glorious sunset. A door to the side led out onto a terrace descending into the garden.

"There's my namesake," Sherlock said, pointing to a portrait of a man with an aquiline nose, slicked-back dark hair, and intelligent grey eyes. It hung above the mantelpiece behind the couches. A small blue book sat on the desk, with the title _Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen _printed in gold across the front. Next to the book sat a decanter of brandy and a bottle of wine.

"Tokay," John murmured, looking at the label on the bottle.

"The finest." Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly and tapped the book. "This was my namesake's magnum opus after his retirement. In this room he caught a Prussian spy in one of his last cases."

"I think my namesake was there; there's a family story about it." John looked at the book in silent reverence. "They did so many things together."

Sherlock nodded. "So I hear." At that moment, a gong sounded for dinner. The two of them left the study for the dining room, closing the door on the past for the time being.

Dinner was subdued, silent. Mrs. Holmes sat at the head of the table. A huge portrait of an austere-looking man with Sherlock's dark hair and sharp eyes stood at the other end. Sherlock seemed eager to look anywhere except there.

"John, my husband Sherrinford," Mrs. Holmes said halfway through the main course as John's eyes flickered to the portrait again. "Upon his death my elder son inherited his position."

"The Archagent occupation's a lifetime deal?" John asked. Mrs. Holmes nodded, her eyes sad.

"It's a very taxing job, I'm afraid, but Mycroft handles it well. He has the same mental acuity as his namesake – but then again, that's to be expected."

"What exactly does the Archagent do?"

Mrs. Holmes sighed. "More than just approving Assignments," she replied enigmatically. "It's an inherited position for a reason. Few people outside the family are suited to the profession."

"All right, but that doesn't explain what makes it such a hard job."

"The Archagent is pretty much the British government," Sherlock interjected. "Mycroft has control over most branches of the state and masterminds just about everything."

"You said a while back that he was responsible for the war."

"He wasn't _responsible_-responsible, but he did declare it," Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes.

"A decision he's been regretting lately," Mrs. Holmes added solmenly. "Even with the recent victories. I think it's got something to do with the Anarchists."

A shadow passed over Sherlock's face at that. Mrs. Holmes read her son's expression like a book, deduced the reason behind the glower, and sighed. John watched their nonverbal exchange with a sigh of his own, feeling like he was intruding into a world of intrigue and danger – the world of the upper-class with their secrets and lies.

He felt like a dog in a room full of M.A.T.I.N.s.

* * *

><p>Mycroft looked up from the report as Lestrade entered the room, a package under his arm.<p>

"Sherlock's not at Baker Street," the Detective Inspector panted, putting his hat onto the hat rack and crossing over to the chair in front of the desk, sitting down with a heavy sigh. "This is for him." He handed the brown paper parcel over.

"Found with the Anarchists that were apprehended on the train going south from King's Cross to Brighton yesterday?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes." Lestrade nodded. "How'd you –?"

"Know about the Anarchists? They were on the same train as Sherlock. How else did they get sabotaged before they could derail the train?"

"So Sherlock's gone south?"

"I told him to visit our mother and to bring John with him. Call it a holiday if you must."

"A forced holiday, seems like."

"Perhaps." Mycroft smiled. "Tea?"

"Gladly." Lestrade accepted a cup from the droid and sipped it. "Darjeeling?"

"Mm, yes." Mycroft examined the box closely, putting on a pair of black leather gloves as he did so. "Bohemian stationery. No fingerprints?"

"Nope," Lestrade replied. "It was in their gear, but as far as we can tell there's been no direct contact with fingertips."

"The address is written with fountain pen. Iridium nib. Woman's handwriting." Mycroft looked up. "She was going to hand-deliver it, but she had it post-marked just in case. No return address, but that's to be expected." He turned the package over. "An Anarchist."

"Do you think Sherlock needs to see this?" Lestrade asked.

"As soon as possible," affirmed Mycroft.

At that moment, the door swung open and Anthea entered with a mug of coffee in one hand and her phone in the other. "I sent the edits," she reported. "They said they'd take it into consideration."

"They always say that, and then they use the edits anyway." Mycroft nodded at Lestrade, a signal for him to leave. The Detective Inspector got to his feet.

"I'll be seeing you later?" he asked, hopefully.

"Perhaps not tonight; I have negotiations to run and a series of disgruntled Delegates to bully," Mycroft replied. "Tomorrow evening, A.S. _Diogenes_." He handed Lestrade a ticket. "Don't be late."

Lestrade took the ticket, nodding. As he left, Mycroft turned to Anthea. "So about the peace negotiations," he said as soon as he figured that Lestrade was far enough out of earshot.

"France has agreed to host the treaty signing. Versailles, October at the earliest." She paused. "That is, if nothing goes severely wrong in the process."

"We all know we're not fighting the Ottomans," Mycroft replied. "It's the Corsairs we're going against. Multinational. We need Ottoman cooperation." A pause. "Has Russia agreed to anything with the Corsairs?"

"Promises, nothing official. They can't fulfil what they're promising, though."

Mycroft's lips twitched in a smirk. "And what about the alliances? Any headway on that?"

"Things in Japan are looking well. The Kamikaze Flyers are trying to import our technologies, and a military alliance –"

"Good, I'll push for that. We need to hurry, or they'll ally with Russia." Mycroft smiled at Anthea. "Have I mentioned lately how utterly indispensable you are to me?"

Her cheeks flushed. "Thank you, sir."

"In fact, this next task that I need you to oversee is of the utmost importance." Mycroft pushed the report towards Anthea. "There's been some security breaches at Baskerville Hall."

* * *

><p>The days at Holmes Manor passed slowly, like long, languorous dreams. John rather liked waking up in the morning knowing he wouldn't have to end the day chasing after criminals with Sherlock, but he also knew Sherlock was chafing at the boredom. The Consulting Detective spent a lot of time on the second floor, updating his experiments. John pulled him away to get some fresh air once in a while.<p>

This particular afternoon halfway through the week (Sherlock was dead set against the visit lasting any longer, no matter how much it broke his mother's heart), the two of them were walking at the base of the chalk cliffs. The shingles continued to shift under their shoes, and the ocean continually lapped at the flint at the edge of the beach. As the tide ebbed and flowed, the beach sparkled in the sunlight. Farther inland, tiny patches of vegetation bloomed tentatively through the cracks in the shingles.

"Isn't it hateful?" sighed Sherlock. "So quiet, calm, peaceful…"

"It's nice," John replied.

"I forget how much the average mind hungers for placidity." Sherlock looked out at sea, watching the gulls fly. Wildlife – real, non-mechanical wildlife – thrived all around them. "Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing."

John rolled his eyes at the veiled insult and slipped his hand into Sherlock's. "I'm sure London can handle not having you on duty for a couple more days," he assured.

"Pah." Sherlock kicked at the shingles. "There's probably been a breakout, a break-in, and an attempt to steal the Crown Jewels. All at the same time, too."

"Don't be ridiculous," John laughed at the notion, his other hand reaching up to cup Sherlock's cheek. "How hard is it for you to stop worrying about all the _fun_ you're missing out on in London?"

"Extremely," Sherlock replied, although his voice sounded slightly strained. "My mind's an engine, John. It's racing out of control – it's a droid tearing itself apart in the test room –" John quickly stopped his rambling with a kiss. That seemed to have the desired effect; Sherlock's expression went from frustrated to blank in exactly three seconds.

"What was that about an out of control mind?" John asked innocently, watching Sherlock regain his senses.

"Mm," Sherlock grunted, before swooping in to return the kiss, one arm snaking behind to clasp the small of John's back. John leaned upwards, releasing his other hand so that he could use it to cup the other side of Sherlock's face, bringing him closer and deepening the kiss. Sherlock's tongue asked for entry; John granted it with a breathy moan that in return elicited a satisfied hum from the Consulting Detective.

They eventually had to break away for air, but they stayed wrapped in each other's arms for a moment longer, looking out towards the sea. Finally, Sherlock detached himself, his rational side returning with a fury as he turned away and started heading back to the house.

John followed, feeling slightly morose. He was used to this by now – Sherlock was, at his best, able to restrain himself from showing too much affection. It wasn't to say that he was a cold lover, but then again he wasn't exactly a hopeless romantic either. He was just… Sherlock. And there was no other way to describe what he does to John.

Indeed, the dichotomy between the rational Sherlock and the sentimental Sherlock was the most evident to John, who had to content himself with chasing after criminals hand-in-hand at times when he'd rather be lounging about in Baker Street doing absolutely nothing while Sherlock treated him like a new discovery with fingers and tongue. He had to be satisfied with nothing more than a highly-distracted peck on the cheek when the Consulting Detective was busy, a peck quickly forgotten in the heady snogs that always indicated that Sherlock was extremely bored. And now, John had to sit through a silent dinner with the Holmes matriarch and her younger son, hoping against hope that Sherlock would be more receptive to physical affection later on in the evening.

Unfortunately for him, however, a droid stepped in after dinner when John was writing in his diary and Sherlock was reading his ancestor's book on beekeeping. It bore a package and a letter for Sherlock. The package was wrapped in brown stationary from Bohemia; the letter was from Mycroft.

"Thank you," Sherlock muttered as he started opening the letter. The droid left; another rolled out to refill John's teacup.

"What's that?" he asked. Sherlock shrugged.

"Letter from Mycroft. This package was recovered from the apprehended Anarchists on the train. He's also sending someone over who had stopped by Baker Street looking for us." The satisfaction and triumph in Sherlock's voice were thicker than the soot in an average Factory chimney. "He'll be here on Friday."

"A client?"

"Seems like it. Dr. Louis Mortimer. Do you know him?"

"No…" John frowned. "Did Mycroft give the Assignment?"

"Formerly a Surgeon, since Mycroft added 'M.R.C.S.' to his name."

"Formerly?"

"He's now a Protector Assistant." Sherlock continued to read the letter. "His charge has recently died. Sir Charles Baskerville, of Baskerville Hall in Dartmoor."

John raised an eyebrow. "Isn't Baskerville Hall the location of some secret government operation?" he asked. "I heard rumours when I was in the army."

"Could be. They would keep it hush-hush, though, if that were true." Sherlock turned his attention to the package, handing John the letter. He pulled on a pair of gloves to examine the package.

"Mycroft's postscript says that that package's from the Anarchists. Could it be a bomb?"

"Scotland Yard had the package first. Even with their incompetence I doubt they'd be able to miss any explosives contained in here. And if it went through Mycroft as well, the chances of it being a trap become even lower." Sherlock grabbed a letter opener from the desk and broke the seal with it, carefully unwrapping the brown paper.

He uncovered a brass laptop.


	28. When the Cat is Away

**Part XXVII**

The brass laptop sported a light on its back in the shape of an apple. Placed across the apple were three letters – I, O, and U.

"It's one of the new laptops," John breathed as Sherlock turned a dial to power it up. The machine dinged five times, before opening up to reveal a document. John crossed over to read the message over Sherlock's shoulder.

_Hello sexy!_

_I'm going to send you a couple of puzzles just to say hi. At the end of this week I'll send you the first puzzle. You'll have a week to figure it out, or else I'm going to be so delightfully naughty! If those fumbling buffoons have done their job, then you'd know just how naughty I can get. But I'm expecting them to fail. It can't be traced to me, in any case._

The note was signed with a single letter M. Sherlock frowned at it. John thought immediately of a certain name.

"Moriarty," he mumbled.

"Perhaps," Sherlock replied. "Dangerous to jump to conclusions."

"The probabilities are high, though," John pointed out.

"Jefferson Hope implicated Moriarty, but after investigation they found no link." Sherlock's brows furrowed. "Hope said that Moriarty sponsored him to kill people, to avenge himself for Lucy Ferrier's death. Rucastle managed to obtain the funds to purchase enough materials to build clockwork droids – and to pay Violet ten thousand pounds per droid. Irene obliquely referenced him as the one who provided her with the connections necessary to become a Courtesan."

"He has some sort of key," added John. "At least, in her letter, she said he had a key…"

"The man with the key is king," murmured Sherlock.

"What about Moran and the train bombers, then?"

"Moran… there's no definitive link but he's got to be connected to Moriarty somehow," Sherlock replied. "And we have proof for the train bombers; Ms. Stoner was disguised as him and this laptop was found in their keeping. There we can begin the trail."

He sprung up and started walking about the room in a seemingly random pattern. "Moriarty was definitely connected to the train bombers and Ms. Stoner, suggesting he's connected to the Anarchists. With connection to Ms. Stoner – or Mrs. Rucastle – he'd be connected to the Rucastles. Moran bore the symbol of the Anarchists on his wrist, but that doesn't totally link him to everyone else. He's only connected as the killer of those members of the opium ring, which have no definite connections to the Anarchists and yet were murdered by one of them. Why?"

"I dunno, maybe they needed the Anarchists' help on something and then they got caught and they'd probably implicate the Anarchists if they went to trial, so…"

"Somehow, I don't think it's just the Anarchists they'd implicate." Sherlock's brows furrowed as he walked to yet another side of the room.

"All right, what about the key? The Bruce-Partington Memory Key?"

"That he definitely has with him. Irene gave it to him after she had Andrew West killed. Moran was involved in that, too, which suggests yet another connection to Moriarty." Sherlock was walking through the room in such a disorganised path that his footprints on the carpet were starting to resemble a tangle, or a web. "It only begs a question, though – how many crimes lead back to Moriarty?"

"So now you're sure he's behind all of this?" John asked.

"No, I'm not. That's the beauty of it, isn't it? He's so innocuous – didn't I wonder what Jefferson Hope had to do with a simple old Maths Professor? He blends right into the background. A social chameleon."

"So you're sure because you're not sure." John raised both eyebrows. "Interesting."

The firelight was flickering now. John tossed on some extra kindling. Sherlock closed the laptop after running through its database and finding nothing else. Finishing his last thought in the entry, John closed his diary and walked over to Sherlock, his eyes questioning.

"Are you going to stay up pondering this?" he asked, gesturing to the laptop. Sherlock shrugged noncommittally and waved a droid over to pour them two glasses of Tokay.

"I don't know. There's nothing else we can do but wait for the first puzzle."

"Then come to bed." John sipped the wine; it was, indeed, quite excellent quality. Sherlock arched an eyebrow in amusement.

"What for?"

John rolled his eyes. "I can't think of anything else I'd like to do more than…" he trailed off, leaning in to whisper the rest into Sherlock's ear, "running my fingers through every texture and contour of your body." His tongue flicked out, briefly touching Sherlock's earlobe. "Making you mine in every sense of the word."

He could feel a slight tremor in the Consulting Detective's body. The heat was building, the tension was coiling. Soon it'd take more than just self-restraint to keep them apart; John could almost sense it.

"Lead the way," Sherlock whispered, voice husky and pupils blown. Perfect.

* * *

><p>"There's been a break-in," Sally Donovan reported.<p>

"Not our division," Lestrade retorted.

"Tower of London – you're on it anyway." She left, leaving Lestrade to get up and follow her. Scotland Yard was teeming with people rushing to and fro – Lestrade looked about in wonder. Recently there hadn't been anything worse than the attempted train bombing, but now –

"Another break-in!" Detective Inspector MacDonald was shouting at someone as he rushed past clutching his pocket-watch. He was in plainclothes; his hair was rather dishevelled. A young Clerk slipped away from the coffee room, his hair as equally unruly as MacDonald's. "Bank of England!"

"There's been a break _out_, too," Carter shouted as he and Dimmock rushed to get into a cab. They were tailed by one of the newer Assignments, a rookie Sergeant Detective named Teddy.

"Crime's having a field day," Lestrade noted wryly as he and Donovan boarded another cab heading towards the Tower of London.

"Tower of London, Bank of England… did they mention which prison?"

"Pentonville, I bet," Lestrade replied. Before they knew it, they were pulling up at the Tower and rushing out, followed by other police officers with their guns and body armour at the ready. They rushed through the metal detectors – the alarm wouldn't stop ringing – and entered the Jewel House.

Amid the finery, a man sat upon the coronation chair wrapped in the ermine robe with the crown on his head. He held the sceptre in his hand, smirking at all of them. The reinforced glass lay in shards all around him, and he held a phone in his hand.

"No rush," he drawled, dialling _send_.

* * *

><p>The textogram zoomed along the lines. Moran, having recently escaped from his cell in Pentonville, looked at the tiny typewriter zooming along the paper strip.<p>

_The Tower Hotel. Room 341. Register under initials V. V. Douglas.  
>M xoxo<em>

Moran swiftly did as he was told, donning a hasty disguise in the shape of a shave, pencilled freckles, and tinted glasses. He looked about him in the dingy pub, spotting a man who seemed to be roughly his height and size. A couple of bank notes exchanged hands, and soon Moran had exchanged his clothes for a pinstriped suit and a lime-green bowler. He took great care to pickpocket an unsuspecting ornithologist on his way out, strapping the goggles to the brim of his hat as he rushed to hail a cab.

He arrived at the hotel in record time, tossing the Cab Driver a sovereign as he raced into the lobby and checked into Room 341 under the name V. V. Douglas. As he ascended, he wondered what his boss would have in store. Another job? Perhaps. Another shot at Sherlock Holmes? Hopefully.

He'd already started planning out a new plan to get to Sherlock when he arrived at the room in question and opened the door. A woman was waiting for him, clad in a highly diaphanous black blouse, a black leather corset, and almost microscopic black shorts. She wore fishnet stockings held up by black garters.

Moran paused for a moment. The woman got to her feet.

"He's at Tower Hill," she reported in a heavy Czech accent. "I'm to give you this." She pulled out a silver key from the front of her blouse. Moran raised an eyebrow.

"A key," he noted.

"A Memory Key," she affirmed. "There's a laptop in the desk."

Moran crossed over to the desk and rolled up the cover, revealing a polished cherry wood laptop. He wound the key to turn it on, and then inserted the Memory Key into the keyhole in the side.

Immediately, a folder opened. The woman strode over to him and pointed at the screen. "These are the Bruce-Partington files," she murmured into his ear. "Each document contains a vital piece of information, but you can only open the document that says your name on it."

"Are those orders?" Moran asked, eying her from the side.

"Yes." She leaned away. Moran opened the document with his name.

* * *

><p>Friday morning dawned to find Sherlock and John tangled beneath the blankets. John was awake; Sherlock was asleep.<p>

For a moment, John felt an overwhelming sense of déjà-vu, except it wasn't exactly déjà-vu – it was more of a recurring feeling. The last time he had felt what he was feeling now was the morning when leave ended and he had to return to Alexandria, the morning when he held Mary close and told her he would return for her.

That had only been months ago and yet… yet it felt like lifetimes ago. Back in the lifetime of a normal John Watson. An Army Surgeon John Watson.

A mechanical shoulder-less John Watson.

Now everything had changed – he wasn't with Mary; he wasn't an Army Surgeon; he wasn't set to return to Alexandria. Sherlock stirred slightly in his sleep, and John felt a grin spread over his face as he watched one of those brilliant blue-green-grey eyes open and scrutinise him, as he watched those pink Cupid's bow lips curve into a lazy smile.

"Morning," John whispered to Sherlock, whose smile broadened.

"Morning." Sherlock opened the other eye but made no move to detangle them. John pulled him closer; Sherlock nuzzled into his hair. "Client should be here soon, I think."

"He can wait," John replied carelessly, shifting their bodies so that he was on top of Sherlock. "Are you sore?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Good."

Sherlock glared at him. "Your turn, then."

"Sure you're up to it?" John's voice was teasing, especially since he knew that a part of Sherlock was definitely _up_ to it.

"Observe my reactions and make a deduction," Sherlock replied. John laughed, leaning in to kiss the Detective's nose.

"Well, then." He moved down, capturing Sherlock's lips with his. "You respond to the kiss rather eagerly," he whispered against Sherlock's lips, "and when I do this," he kissed a trail up Sherlock's jaw line and bit lightly at his earlobe, "you shiver."

His lips meandered back down Sherlock's neck, tongue flicking out to lick lightly at the hollow of the Detective's throat. "You moaned when I did that… and now my breath causes you to shiver, perhaps in excitement. I can kiss your pulse; it's elevated. Your pupils are dilating; you're sweating slightly already."

"John," Sherlock murmured, voice laced with desire and pride.

"Your voice is even lower than usual." Oh god, this was turning him on, too. John resisted the urge to grind their hips together. "Based on all of these clues and the very obvious one pressed against my arse, I can therefore deduce that you're definitely up for another round."

"You're in sparkling form," Sherlock replied, still in that husky voice. "Think we can get it in before the client comes barging over?"

"We'll see," John replied, reaching for the condoms.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong> Apologies for the overwhelming amounts of Johnlock. It just seemed the right moment to do so because upcoming arcs will barely have space for shenanigans.


	29. Dr Louis Mortimer

**Part XXVIII**

Dr. Louis Mortimer was waiting for them in the parlour when Sherlock and John finally descended the stairs properly dressed. The ex-Surgeon was tall, thin, with a beak-like nose and keen grey eyes. He wore gold-rimmed goggles perched on his head and a pair of golden pince-nez dangling from a silver chain around his neck. His pinstriped breeches were splattered with mud; he had smudges of mud all over his shining black boots; his blue velvet vest looked travel-stained and worn. His frock coat was hanging on the brass peg in the hall, next to a tartan scarf and a clock-topped walking stick.

"Mr. Holmes!" he exclaimed, leaping to his feet to shake Sherlock's hand. "How very nice to see you!"

"Indeed," Sherlock remarked neutrally. Dr. Mortimer turned to John.

"Ah, and Dr. Watson." He smiled, his eyes showing happiness at having found a fellow Protector, someone who understood what it was like to dedicate his life to helping and protecting one other person. John smiled in return, shaking his newfound colleague's hand.

"Pleased to meet you, Dr. Mortimer."

"You're here to discuss the murder of Sir Charles Baskerville?" Sherlock asked.

"Mm, yes, in a way." Dr. Mortimer resumed his seat; Sherlock and John sat on the loveseat across from him.

"I hope your M.A.T.I.N. doesn't mind staying in the kitchen?" Sherlock asked. Dr. Mortimer nearly jumped out of his seat.

"How did you know?"

"The teeth marks on your walking-stick in the nearby hallway. You sometimes have your M.A.T.I.N. fetch you your stick. It didn't bother to wipe its feet in the entryway, and instead veered off in the direction of the kitchen leaving a mud trail behind. You must have arrived recently, though, since no droids have come by to clean up the mud."

"Yes, about a minute ago. Your mother anticipated us."

"Considering that you left London at the earliest train south this morning, I suppose the matter is of graver importance than what Mycroft believes?"

"Well, he said that the best time to contact you would be Saturday, the day you return – but unfortunately, my new charge comes in on Saturday and I need your advice as soon as possible –"

"You contacted him on Wednesday. Why not come over on Thursday?"

"Trains were full on Thursday. There was a mass breakout at Pentonville and break-ins at the Tower of London and the Bank of England."

"Who was the perpetrator?" Sherlock asked, sending a significant look at John.

"Well, the Maths Professor James Moriarty attempted to steal the Crown Jewels at the Tower, but we don't know about the others. Or at least that's what the papers this morning said."

John frowned. "Moriarty did _what_?"

"I thought he wasn't going to actually involve himself with a crime," Sherlock murmured. "That must mean he's up to something."

"Could it be the first puzzle?"

Mortimer was looking at them oddly at this point, so Sherlock and John turned their attention back to him.

"What do you need my advice for?" Sherlock asked. "Is it about the death of Sir Charles, or about his successor?"

"Both, to be honest," Mortimer replied. "But it'd require a bit of backstory."

"Oh, lovely." Sherlock crossed his arms and settled into his thinking pose. John leaned in to listen to the story.

"Baskerville Hall has been, for generations, an expansive manor house not unlike your own, housing the Baskervilles and a multitude of servants under its roof. In recent times, however, the family hasn't… proliferated. Now the last Baskerville in the family is my new charge, Sir Henry Baskerville."

"I see," Sherlock muttered.

"The Baskervilles have always served the state faithfully, as top-tier civil servants and Assignment Agents for the mid-Devon area. So when the government asked to house a top-secret, high-security project at Baskerville Hall, they readily agreed."

"When was this asked?"

"Decades ago."

Sherlock nodded, frowning. "Can you tell me the project?"

"I believe the official acronym is R.A.C.H.E.L.," replied Mortimer, causing Sherlock and John to look at each other in alarm.

"The Legacy Project!" John exclaimed.

"So you know what it is?" Mortimer asked.

"It's supposedly a project that enables people to access past memories, like some sort of memory bank," Sherlock replied immediately. "Or at least that's what the press thinks it means."

"I suppose." Dr. Mortimer shifted uncomfortably. "In any case, the Legacy Project is highly sensitive and therefore well-guarded."

"M.A.T.I.N.s?"

"Cerberus model."

John's eyes widened and he muttered something like "wow" under his breath.

"The Cerberus models are programmed to guard the Hall from all sides. Aside from that, we have other security checks and the Great Grimpen Mire to keep intruders away."

"But something happened. Sir Charles's death is suspicious, and you fear that the same fate will befall Sir Henry."

"Right you are, Mr. Holmes." Mortimer's face had turned ashen pale; his hands were shaking. "I find it hard to doubt the evidence of my own eyes, even if it happened a week ago. It's still fresh in my memory, burned beneath my eyelids in sleep…" He shuddered, unwilling to remember what had happened.

"Tell us what happened," John whispered, face anxious.

* * *

><p>Sir Charles Baskerville was a Politician of simple tastes and regular habits. He dressed similarly every morning, in the same style of solemn black, white, red. Red waistcoat, white shirt, black trousers, black coat. Golden watch, golden glasses. His salt-and-pepper beard was immaculate; his dark but greying hair was well combed. He had keen brown eyes and a long, aquiline nose.<p>

On the morning of his death, he made his usual rounds about the mansion with Dr. Mortimer following behind several paces. He talked to the Scientists maintaining the project's systems; he talked to the Mechanics responsible for the Cerberus M.A.T.I.N.s.; he talked to the Manager. The Manager, Eliza Selden, had married his butler John Barrymore a couple of years ago. The two remained childless. Aside from Barrymore, the rest of the servants in Baskerville were clockwork droids.

Mortimer had been trying to get his charge to go to London. A change of scenery, some distance between Devonshire and himself – anything was welcome with his failing health. His heart and lungs were weak; he had nearly died of bronchitis last winter. Mortimer was trying to schedule an operation to get some clockwork reinforcements for his heart and lungs, using his connections at the Charing Cross Hospital in the process. That day, he had finally managed to find an appointment that would work for them. He broke the news to Sir Charles in the afternoon, the arrangement was settled, and the accommodations and transportation plans were accordingly made.

That evening found the two of them sitting up late with the two head Scientists at the Hall, Dr. Beryl Stapleton and Dr. Jack Frankland. After a while, Sir Charles left for his usual walk, insisting that Mortimer stay inside since it was rather cold outside. Darkness had settled on the moor with a blanket of fog, and from the windows it was hard to see where Sir Charles had gone.

Moments later, the howling of a hound broke through the night air. John Barrymore rushed through the parlour in his haste to get out; Mortimer followed him with fear in his heart. The howling increased in volume and fearsomeness; for one chilling moment Mortimer had thought the creature that made the terrible noise was close to them. But Barrymore, with the lantern in his hand, pressed on. They searched the front grounds and found nothing, but when they went round back and traversed the yew alley, they found footsteps. The footsteps had started out normal, but suddenly they had changed. They were lighter, the footsteps of a man who was fleeing for his life.

Heart racing, hands sweating, Mortimer continued to follow Barrymore along the path. The howling had subsided, leaving only the mournful whistle of wind through trees and the creaking hinges of the old moor-gate off to the side, swinging to and fro in the wind.

"Unlocked," Barrymore breathed. "What on earth –"

The moor-gate led onto the moor, predictably. It was ten feet away from the Great Grimpen Mire, which had expanded to encircle nearly all of the land surrounding Baskerville Hall (mostly from deliberate flooding on behalf of the state). But there was no indication that Sir Charles had gone through the gate. In fact, the gravel around it had been scuffed up, but not by him.

Mortimer and Barrymore turned away from the creaking gate. As they looked father down the yew alley, Mortimer's face turned ashen with horror and Barrymore nearly dropped his lantern in shock.

Lying a couple feet from the creaking gate with his face turned towards the ground, with scratch and bite marks all over his body, with almost the entirety of his neck ripped into shreds, was Sir Charles Baskerville.

* * *

><p>"Is any of this known to the public?" Sherlock asked as John waved a droid over to pour Mortimer a glass of strong brandy.<p>

"The public story is that he died of natural causes. Cardiac arrest, dyspnoea. But it's obvious he died a violent death. His throat was torn out and laid a couple of feet away from his corpse."

"And do you have any clues as to what led to this violent death?"

"The sound of a hound, and something else. Barrymore failed to mention it to the others when we notified everyone of the death, but it's something that has been bothering me ever since. The gravel walk was scuffled; there were footprints there and around the body."

"A man's or a woman's?"

Dr. Mortimer looked from Sherlock to John, before leaning in. "They were the footprints of a _gigantic hound_."

Sherlock and John looked at each other. "Natural or mechanical?" Sherlock demanded.

"Couldn't tell with the gravel. But I will have you know that the Cerberus models are extremely docile unless you happen to be an intruder."

"So it could be an actual hound, or it could be a malfunctioning M.A.T.I.N."

"We've checked them. The Mechanics found no changes in their programming."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Hm. By the way, how has the Project been able to work without the Bruce-Partington Memory Key? Because I know that that's been put in the wrong hands."

"That Memory Key isn't the only copy," Mortimer affirmed.

"Ah." Sherlock smiled. "I was wondering why you lot were keeping such sensitive government projects on Memory Keys, of all things."

Mortimer shrugged. "I'm only a Protector. I don't interfere with my charge's business unless he's in danger." He paused at that, his face reverting to a sickly, sorrowful pallor. "I can't believe I let him die. I should've gone out after him."

"It's not your fault for following orders," John comforted.

"But he was killed because of my negligence! I'm lucky the Baskerville-Mortimer Protectorship is one that has spanned generations; they'd Deassign me otherwise!"

Sherlock and John looked at each other again. Throughout the Empire's history, there were always famous Protectorships, the bonds formed between Protector Assistant and charge. Their own, the Holmes-Watson Protectorship, was one that had even influenced the creation of the Protector Assistant Assignment.

"I think we'll look into your case," Sherlock said in as comforting a voice as he could muster (which wasn't very comforting at all, but it was the thought that counted). "The death does seem to be very suspicious – after all, an ordinary dog cannot open the gate on its own, so someone would have unleashed it on purpose. And if a M.A.T.I.N. was responsible for the death, then who reprogrammed it to attack Sir Charles? Either way, it clearly suggests murder." He paused. "Now, what is the matter concerning your next charge?"

"I'd come to that same conclusion, Mr. Holmes," Mortimer replied calmly. "If there's a murderer within our ranks – we're very much isolated from the rest of Devon – the rest of Dartmoor, to be honest – then that person may wish to see Sir Henry dead as well."

"You say Sir Henry's coming in on Saturday? From where, and to where?"

"He's arriving in London from Canada on Saturday. He's next of kin, as indicated by the will left by Sir Charles. A good portion of the inheritance, the title, and the Hall goes to him, and the rest to the Legacy Project. I already know Sir Henry will continue letting the state use the Hall for the Project, but he's signing the papers tomorrow."

"Mycroft will oversee that," Sherlock told John. "We'll return to London with you," he added, nodding at Dr. Mortimer. "Our train leaves at twenty-one hours tonight. See you in a bit."


	30. Baskerville Hall

**Part XXIX**

The airship pulled into the London-Heathrow air-dock at noon. Amid the hundreds of passengers that disembarked there stood a handsome young man with chestnut brown hair and a rather sturdy figure. He was clean-shaven and wore a stovepipe hat decorated with gears. His sleek black suit was nicely pressed, and his pocket-watch looked extremely expensive. Several young women eyed him interestedly as he descended the gangplank with a smart tap-tap of his elegantly-carved walking stick, but he showed no interest in any of them.

"Sir Henry!" someone shouted from the crowd on the dock. There was a small commotion, and suddenly three men were at the young man's side. The one who had shouted bore a walking-stick with a clock at the top; a metallic cocker spaniel lurked at his ankles. "Welcome to London, Sir Henry!"

"You must be Dr. Mortimer!" the young man exclaimed happily, shaking Mortimer's hand. "What a pleasure it is to see you!"

"Pleasure's all mine, as your new Protector Assistant." Mortimer's eyes twinkled, but there seemed to be a shadow weighting on his shoulder. Sir Henry turned to the other two men.

"Who are you?" he asked them pleasantly.

"Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective," the taller one with the unruly dark hair replied briskly. "This is my Protector Assistant."

"Dr. John Watson, former Army Surgeon," the shorter one added, smiling kindly.

"I see." Sir Henry turned away, smiling. "Well, shall we?"

* * *

><p>Mycroft turned from the surveillance droid and nodded at Anthea. "The papers are secured. Signed, notarised. Baskerville Hall remains partly under state control, and you have clearance to visit."<p>

"Thank you, sir," Anthea replied calmly. "What would I be looking for, sir, if your brother is also on the case?"

"Since Sherlock took the case, you'll be there to… supervise him."

"You mean babysit him, sir," Anthea replied with a devilish smile. Mycroft snorted.

"True, true." The Archagent sipped his tea. "Report to me when the person responsible is found. It's tied to the security breach, I'm almost certain of it."

His meeting with Lestrade aboard the A.S. _Diogenes_ had been dropped due to the breakouts and break-ins on Thursday. Moriarty was set to go on trial for attempted jewel theft next week, but Mycroft didn't have high hopes of conviction. There was a shocking dearth of evidence, considering that the police had found him sitting in the throne as bold as brass.

And he had insisted that Mortimer wait to see Sherlock! Sometimes Mycroft surprised himself with his failure to see the picture. He'd been so concerned about the security breach and the possible leaked information that he'd forgotten to link it to the death of Sir Charles. Despite what the papers said, the link was obvious and Mycroft Holmes was a fool.

But that was all fixed now. Sherlock was on the case as well, Sir Henry had just signed the papers securing the state's rights to Baskerville Hall, and Anthea was going to ensure that he knew who the culprit behind Sir Charles's death was.

In the meantime, he had to make sure Lord Holdhurst was still working on the Ottoman treaty.

* * *

><p>They went to Devonshire via Floating Steamer, a soaring steamship with huge wings and numerous propellers. The F.S. <em>Gertie <em>was carrying cargo and passengers to Plymouth, but it would make a stop in Devon on the way. It had been the quickest and cheapest thing available at the moment, but the instant the ship started swooping about in the air like it was being tossed on actual waves, Sherlock had nearly stormed to the bridge to demand the Captain's Deassignment.

"Bad idea, Sherlock!" John had insisted as he restrained his charge. At that moment the ship had tilted violently to the side, something that caused trunks to slide and Dr. Mortimer to be violently airsick over the edge. Down below, the glistening spires of Bristol glittered in the afternoon light. "You'll never make it to the bridge with the ship flopping all over the place like this."

"At least it's not one of the Irish Ferries," Sir Henry had quipped, but otherwise looked unsure of opening his mouth.

Now Sherlock was wrapped in an orange blanket and bristling with anger in his seat, having also been airsick after the ship lurched a bit over Bridgewater. John was fairly sure the Captain's idea of facing air turbulence was to follow the contours of said turbulence. He also wondered if any of the crew was just as sick.

"Who the hell is flying this tin can anyway?" the Consulting Detective groused as Exeter came into view. The first signs of moor started to appear, and John was surprised at how excited he was to see their destination. "He must have begged his Assignment Agent to give him the Pilot Assignment and then subsequently flunked out of a flight school and failed the certification examinations at another one. Seven times."

"Are you really deducing his career from the way he flies the ship, or are you just pissed that he made you vomit?" John asked.

"Both." Sherlock stared out of the porthole hatefully.

When they disembarked at Devon, it was with trembling legs and extreme gratitude at being on solid ground once more. Dr. Mortimer looked half-ready to kiss the ground; Sir Henry seemed eager to get to Baskerville Hall and therefore put some distance between himself and that flying death trap of a Floating Steamer. Sherlock was still wearing his orange blanket, and John was knackered.

Baskerville Hall was well-lit; by the time they arrived at the lodge-gates night had fallen as sure and silent as owl wings. The moor was a stretch of shadows of varying shades of dark, but the lights of the Hall shone warm and cheery. There were two distinct towers rising over the trees of the property, and the main hall was alight with electric lamps. At first glance, it was hard to reconcile such a tragic event as Sir Charles's death with such a cheerily-lit place as Baskerville Hall.

But a second glance suggested more. The entire Hall was tall, imposing. There were parts that had obviously existed for centuries, and other parts that were clearly modern. The glass walls of the East Wing, for example, were obviously new. The lights within that wing made it shine like the Crystal Palace in Hyde Park, a structure that oft awoke the imagination and made one believe in fairies.

Sherlock had noted that there was only one road in, and one road out. The gates were just as imposing as the Hall itself – when their wagonette left and the gates clanged shut it felt almost final.

A man with a square black beard walked out of the Hall. Behind him strode several clockwork droids; they all bowed before Sir Henry with a considerable amount of creaking on the droids' behalves.

"Welcome to Baskerville Hall, Sir Henry," John Barrymore the butler said cordially. Behind him stood a woman clad in striped trousers and a white puff-sleeved blouse, and next to her stood a familiar-looking woman.

John turned to Sherlock. "What's Mycroft's Protector Assistant doing here?" he whispered.

* * *

><p>Under the pseudonym V. V. Douglas, Sebastian Moran had posted bail for James Moriarty.<p>

"How do you plan on avoiding conviction?" he asked Moriarty as the dark-haired man sat in the twin suite at the Tower Hotel, unconcernedly throwing darts into the opposite wall.

"Oh, a little hacking," Moriarty replied calmly. "The evidence is scant, though. Mycroft Holmes knows that perfectly well." He snickered. "Oh dear me, Mr. Holmes, dear me."

"All right, then. What do you plan to do about the other one?"

"Sherlock?" Moriarty threw the next dart with a little more force than needed. "Oh, yes, I've almost forgotten about that little game he's supposed to play with me." He laughed carelessly. "You don't mind delivering a couple packages?"

"To where? Baker Street?"

"Pish-posh, he's gone to Devon. Following up on the Baskerville murder; it's obvious."

Moran was always impressed with how easily Moriarty could anticipate Sherlock's movements, and that admiration clearly showed. Moriarty smirked, catlike.

"Send it to Baskerville Hall, dear Seb," he drawled. "And prepare the next… sacrifice."


	31. The First Puzzle

**Part XXX**

An atmosphere of fear permeated the streets of London. With the mass breakout at Pentonville, it seemed as if no corner was safe. People rushed to finish journeys by nightfall; upper-class and bourgeoisie women insisted on chaperones.

The summer warmth was replaced by summer rain, fog in the early evenings, and the first faint hints of autumn winds. Even the victories abroad – it seemed as if they were finally turning the tide, and the Ottoman government seemed willing to cooperate against the true enemy, the Corsairs – did nothing to return the sunny disposition of the weeks before.

This sort of atmosphere was something that Moriarty thrived in, lived for. He lived off the glorious feeling of fear, from trembling maths students to terrified and paranoid Londoners. He knew Sherlock Holmes would thrive in it too – plenty of crimes now, plenty of little distractions. He'd never be bored, just like Moriarty.

Moriarty consulted the list of clients. He had so many people who owed him. He'd have to cash in the favours sooner or later. But in the meantime, he had a game to play. Grinning, he folded up the list and turned on his laptop, watching in glee as the terrified face of a young female Doctor filled the screen. She was snivelling, sobbing, strapped to a spindly brass chair that was fused with sticks of dynamite and many, many cogs and gears that would turn the death-machine upon her – the machine that would spark the explosives.

_Don't snivel_, Moriarty typed, knowing that she would see it on the screen. _Do as I say and hope that he'll be able to solve the puzzle._

"Wh-what have I d-done to you? Puh-please! Have mercy!" she blubbered.

_Shut up, Miss Sawyer_. She fell silent. _I want you to call this number_.

Sarah Sawyer was bound to the chair, but her hands were free to dial and call. Moriarty knew one of his henchmen held the lever that would turn on the machine. She had no choice.

* * *

><p>"Eliza Barrymore, I believe?" Sherlock asked the woman standing in front of him. She nodded, smiling tersely before reaching up and tucking stray strands of mousy brown hair behind her ears. Sherlock's eyes flitted up and down her form, noticing that she had distinctive stains under her fingernails and traces of dust on the pads of her fingertips, not to mention smudges of something shimmery on the insides of her forearms. Even in the dim lighting of the dining hall, it was obvious to him.<p>

"Eliza manages the Legacy Project, as you already know," Mortimer remarked.

"Yes, I keep all the rooms dedicated to the Project in tip-top shape and I make sure the Scientists have everything under control. At this point it's not as much of a creating thing as it is a…" she paused, frowning before finishing, "maintaining thing."

"Makes sense," John remarked, picking at his shepherd's pie.

"When can we have introductions to the other staff members of the Legacy Project?" Sherlock asked.

"I'll introduce you to our two head Scientists," Eliza replied, "as well as the two Head Mechanics. They're the only ones who know what's going on."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Everyone else has no idea what they're doing?"

"No, no, they do." Eliza paused. "You are referring to the death of Sir Charles, right? I'm saying that those other four know that there's more to Sir Charles's death than what meets the eye. The other Scientists, Mechanics, and Clerks commute from Coombe Tracey to Baskerville Hall and therefore aren't as well-versed in the events as these four, who live here."

"Ah." Sherlock still looked sceptical. "I see."

They subsided into silent dining. Sir Henry was looking around him apprehensively, especially avoiding eye contact with the portraits hanging on the walls. John felt as if each and every Baskerville in those portraits was judging him.

"I hope it's just the dimness of the room that's making everything so frightening," Sir Henry mumbled halfway through dessert. He looked over at Anthea, who was dialling out texts so quickly her fingers were blurred. Her crème brûlée lay untouched in front of her. "Perhaps things won't be so depressing in the morning. It's all because of my uncle's mysterious death, isn't it? Getting to everyone?"

"Sadly true," replied Eliza, nodding at Sir Henry.

At that moment, however, the door leading into the dining hall opened and John Barrymore entered with a package. "This came in the evening post for Mr. Holmes," he said, giving the package to Sherlock. Sherlock took it, and the instant his fingers touched the brown wrapping paper there was a loud ringing from his phone.

"Excuse me," the Consulting Detective said, standing up and striding out of the room, closely followed by John. He took out his phone as they traversed the darkened hallways to their room, where their valises were waiting for them and the brass laptop sat innocuously on the desk.

"Set it on speakers," John suggested. Sherlock pulled the lever accordingly and removed the receiver from its holder.

Immediately the sound of a sobbing woman filled the air, punctuated by the tick-tick-tick of clockwork in the background. "H-h-hello…" she stammered. John's eyes went wide.

"Watt's engine!" John breathed. "I know her!"

Sherlock stared at him. "Who is she?"

"Sarah Sawyer! She was Mary's best friend and confidante when we were all tots!" John's face was pale, extremely pale. Sherlock, however, nodded briskly and returned his attention to the voice.

"Miss Sawyer?" he asked.

"Y-yes, but th-that's not th-the p-point," Sarah sobbed. "I-I've s-s-sent you a little puzzle, juh-juh-just to say… hi…"

"Does she usually stammer?" Sherlock asked John.

"Only when she was nervous, so either that or she's… being fed lines."

"O-open the puh-puh-package, Mr. H-Holmes," Sarah breathed.

Sherlock gave John the phone and started opening the package, noting at first that the wrapping paper and handwriting were all the same and that the seal on the back still bore the Anarchist symbol. The contents of the package, however, were a pair of sequined boots.

"Th-three days…" Sarah gasped, "tuh-tuh-to solve my puh-puh-puzzle… or I'm going to be so… n-n-naughty…"

Sherlock and John looked at each other in alarm as Sarah abruptly hung up. John set down the phone, his hands shaking.

"She's in danger. We have to save her," he said immediately.

Sherlock wordlessly held up the shoes.

"No, Sherlock, I mean we need to find her and save her."

"Even I can't deduce where she is from a phone call alone. If this is Moriarty, he's too smart to leave the call traceable."

"But there were clock sounds!"

"That could be the thing that may end up killing her," Sherlock pointed out. "The best way to save her is to solve the puzzle. We have three days."

"Then what about Sir Charles?"

Sherlock paused. "Until tomorrow," he said after a moment, "we cannot determine what killed Sir Charles and who was behind it. It's too dangerous to jump to conclusions; we need data. However, these boots are data for another crime completely, so in the meantime I will solve this."

"Shouldn't we alert the police?"

"Not until we have her location secured, which we don't." Sherlock looked at John seriously, intently. "Tell them I won't be returning to dinner."

John nodded, and left the room. Sherlock immediately sat down and started examining the boots.

* * *

><p>When John returned to their room after dessert, Sherlock had lit every lamp in the room and was slicing up bits of the insides of the boots.<p>

"Can you get me a microscope, John?" he asked distractedly. John sighed, and left the room again. It took him moments to locate Eliza Barrymore and ask for a microscope; she obliged readily enough, wondering what Sherlock could have unearthed. John brought in a giant brass microscope, and Sherlock had it realigned properly so he could start using it.

"What have you found?" John asked, after half an hour or so of watching Sherlock bent over the microscope, constantly focusing and refocusing.

"What can you tell me?" Sherlock replied, tapping at one of the boots. "You know how I do it. Try it yourself."

"What for? You'll just make fun of me," John muttered.

"Outside opinion. Very useful to me, really." Sherlock straightened up, crossing his arms and looking at John expectantly. Groaning, John took the boot.

"Well, the owner either had bad fashion tastes or lived when sequined shoes were in style," he remarked. "And the last time they were in style, according to Mary, was… five years ago? Something like that?"

"Ten," Sherlock replied briskly. "You and I were eleven then. Go on."

"Well, they're… in good nick. If they're ten years old at the least, then they've been kept pretty well. They're not exactly formalwear boots, though, since the heel's not really defined and the toes are rounded. And the soles have been worn, so they've been used regularly."

"Excellent." Sherlock smirked. "What else can you tell me? Think about the owner."

"They're kinda big, so I would say an adult's boot?"

"But…?"

"But…" John frowned as he turned the shaft of the boot inside out. "There are traces of a name in ink on the lining. So these belonged to a kid."

"Good. What else?"

John frowned, examining the sequins. "I… I dunno. That's it. How'd I do?"

"Well." Sherlock's smirk grew wider. "Very well!" A pause. "I mean, you missed almost everything of importance, but…"

John grimaced, and handed the boot back to Sherlock. "Right, so what did I miss?" he asked.

"Look at these sequins, especially the ones along the vamp. The owner loved these boots; they sewed on replacement sequins when the old ones fell off; they polished the leather parts regularly and replaced the lining when it got too worn. But as I've already found from my observations there are traces of flaky skin from where the boot made contact with dry skin, and thin layers of oil from where lotions and creams were applied – sometimes to the foot, more often to the legs. Women are more likely to use lotions to moisturise dry skin, so the probability is high that these boots belonged to a girl."

"But they're big! Almost men's sizes!"

"Must have been a girl with big feet, then," Sherlock replied. "Now despite her best intentions, she couldn't avoid getting mud caked into the soles of her boots. But she loved them; she wouldn't leave them filthy. So wherever she went last with these boots, she never returned home to clean them."

"And this all happened at least ten years ago?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded. "I need to figure out the contents of the mud to find where she went."

"You'll be up all night with this, I think." John tried his best to hide a yawn, but nothing ever escaped the Consulting Detective.

"Go sleep, John."

"You won't need help with this?"

"I can handle it." Sherlock smiled. John leaned in, kissed his cheek, and crossed the room to start preparing for bed.

As he slid beneath the heavy covers of the double bed, John turned to face Sherlock at his desk. Sherlock had, considerately enough, turned down half of the lamps in the room. His face was illuminated by electric and gas lamps alike, giving him an imposing, otherworldly look as he continued to stare through the brass microscope.

John sighed, and succumbed to sleep.


	32. Wayward MATINs and Missing Tools

**Part XXXI**

"Carla Powers!"

The name jerked John out of his reverie. He cracked open an eye. The morning light filled the bedchamber, and Sherlock Holmes sat at his desk exuding triumph like an intoxicating perfume.

"Wasgoinon?" John mumbled, looking up from the pillow.

"Carla Powers, John! Don't you remember? The girl who came up to London to visit her aunt and drowned at one of those old Recreational Centres?"

John frowned, trying to get his brain to start functioning. "Who goes to Rec Centres anymore?" he mumbled stupidly.

"John, hurry up." Sherlock stared impatiently at him. John's scowl deepened.

"I just woke up, wait a sec!" The Protector Assistant flopped onto his back and stared at the rafters of their room. "Carla Powers… Carla Powers… her death caused the Manager of that centre to flee to France, didn't it?"

"Exactly!" Sherlock nodded. "The very same! The newspapers all claimed she had a sort of fit in the pool and went under, and when they got her to shore it was already too late. Autopsy showed paralysed muscles and nerves. I thought there was something wrong about the entire thing."

"You were only eleven. Started young, didn't you?"

Sherlock laughed harshly. "Yes, but… her shoes, John. There was something wrong about them."

"How so?"

"They weren't there. They managed to find the rest of her belongings – except for her shoes. Now here they are."

"So you're saying Moriarty – the person who sent us this puzzle – killed her?"

"Yes, exactly. And now I need to figure out how he did it."

John nodded. "All right, then. But you need to meet the Scientists and the Mechanics first."

* * *

><p>Sherlock could tell by their body language that the Scientists were not going to tell him a thing.<p>

"Dr. Beryl Stapleton," Eliza introduced, "and Dr. Jack Frankland."

"What exactly do the two of you do?" Sherlock asked immediately. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Anthea lurking with her mobile, evidently listening in.

"We maintain the information stored in the Project," Stapleton replied briskly. She wore a white lab coat over a flowery blouse, brown shorts, and leather braces; she had a very chunky pair of magnifying goggles perched on her head.

"Yes, the genetic information and the… memories." Frankland had a very tight-lipped smile. "It's all under control; you can tell that to your boss." He directed that at Anthea, who raised an eyebrow in response.

"Do you ever come into contact with the M.A.T.I.N.s.?" Sherlock asked.

The two Scientists looked at each other. "Not very often," Stapleton answered. "We do occasionally check on them, but that's more the Mechanics' jobs. Are we finished?"

Sherlock shook his head. "So, I was under the impression that Sir Charles died of cardiac arrest?" he asked. "At sundown, behind the summer house?"

"No, that's all wrong," Frankland interjected immediately. "He died at eleven at night, within a few feet from the moor-gate in the yew alley. His throat was torn out by a gigantic hound."

Sherlock raised both eyebrows. "How would you know? You weren't there."

"I heard about it from Barrymore and Mortimer!"

Sherlock nodded. "I see." He turned to Stapleton. "Do you have anything to add to that?"

"None whatsoever," she said swiftly.

"Good. Call in the Mechanics." Sherlock looked over at John, who was recording the proceedings with a phonograph. Eliza escorted the Scientists out of the room, and returned with one of the two Mechanics.

"Laura Lyons," she introduced. "Rodger Perkins is apparently in the workshop."

Laura smiled nervously at them, and Sherlock looked her up and down noting that she had grime all over her boots, the mud of the mire caked about the edge, and grease all over her fingers. The smudges on the spanner suggested that she had just used it.

"What can you tell me about the M.A.T.I.N.s.?" he asked.

She looked at him, eyes wide in alarm. "They're…" she looked nervously about the room. "They're not fine, actually. Or at least, one of them isn't fine. He's taken to wandering off its assigned path. I'm really worried about him – he's such a gentle creature – but what…"

"There's no need to be so upset," Eliza chided.

"I'm just worried that someone's tampered with Fluffy!" Laura insisted. "The poor thing used to be the best Cerberus around, even better than the others, but now he's wandering about in places where he's got no business, and roaming the moor at night –"

"Has Fluffy demonstrated any signs of aggression?" Sherlock asked.

Laura bit her lower lip and shook her head furiously. Sherlock frowned.

"Have you checked his memory plate?" John asked. "Are there gaps in its surveillance?"

"I've checked, and there's nothing out of the ordinary." Laura shook her head. "I'm worried about him, I really am – what if someone tries to frame him?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to ask another question, but the door to the room opened at that moment and Rodger Perkins, a young man with curly red hair, freckles, and bright green eyes, rushed in looking extremely out of breath.

"Fluffy's wandered into the Great Grimpen Mire!" he gasped.

* * *

><p>The Great Grimpen Mire extended from the outskirts of Baskerville Hall to the hills. It was a mixture of swamp and moor, with deception at every step. There was no knowing if the next foothold would be solid ground or a floating mass of mud and sludge that could cause even the hardiest of travellers to stumble to a muddy death. Despite that, the mire teemed with beauty. Wildlife – real wildlife, almost like the species that dominated the marshes at the South Downs – thrived in this remote area where even the most experienced hunters feared to tread.<p>

As John and Sherlock raced out towards the mire with the Mechanics and Eliza in tow, they could see the white forms of the Scientists wandering ahead in the sludge. Stapleton seemed to know her way about the swamp very well; she was quickly gaining on the wandering M.A.T.I.N., which in the distance was only a metallic glimmer.

"Should we go after them?" John asked.

"You don't know your way about the mire. It could kill you," Perkins said, tightening the buckles of his engineer's boots before splashing into the mire as well. Laura stayed with them at the edge.

Up ahead, it seemed that Frankland was gaining on Stapleton. Together, they managed to subdue the M.A.T.I.N. and started hauling it back to the Hall. However, halfway through Stapleton took a false step and plunged face-first into the mud. Frankland left her behind. Laura gasped in horror.

Perkins ran up to Stapleton and helped her up onto firmer land, and together the two made their way back to shore. By that time, Frankland had set Fluffy back down in the yew alley; the clockwork hound growled sulkily and shook its metallic body furiously, trying to get rid of all the mud.

Sherlock walked over and examined the M.A.T.I.N. with his magnifying goggles. The Cerberus model wasn't any definitive breed of dog, but rather a conglomeration of various breeds. It had the fierce look of a German shepherd, the keen nose of a bloodhound, the loyalty and intelligence of a Golden Retriever. It ran with the grace of a Rajapalayam hound, and it sat with the nobility of a St. Bernard. It was obviously a masterpiece of the M.A.T.I.N.s, and Sherlock understood perfectly why John was staring at it slack-jawed.

Laura bent down and started petting the M.A.T.I.N. anxiously, grabbing a towel to clear the mud from its paws. The two of them set off for the Hall; Sherlock and John tagged along behind them. The Mechanic led the M.A.T.I.N. into a workshop next to the glass-wall wing. Right before the door closed, Sherlock and John managed to slip in.

The workshop was spacious. There was a loft that held temporary sleeping quarters and a wide array of mechanical parts and tools covering just about every available surface. The floor shone with splotches of grease and paint. Despite the mess, however, there was a distinct feeling of comfort from the twinkling of the metal gears and equipment, from the puffing and whirring of the engines, from the clanking of the partway-fixed droids and animals. Everything shone in rich, earthy tones. It was all so very different from the Spartan studio on the third floor of Copper Beeches.

Laura led the M.A.T.I.N. into a cleared space underneath a lamp, took out her toolkit, and frowned. She then got up, started rummaging around in the nearby heap of tools and parts, noticed Sherlock and John, and gasped.

"Something wrong?" Sherlock asked calmly.

"Yes! I mean no! I mean…" Laura continued to bustle around, searching for something. Fluffy cocked an ear and tilted its head.

"What are you looking for?" John asked.

"What are you doing here?"

"We wanted to take a look at the workshop. Nothing wrong with that, right?"

Laura said nothing; she turned and continued to rummage through the chaotic workshop. After a moment, she straightened up. "My tools are gone."

"You have your spanner in your belt," Sherlock replied calmly.

"Everything else," Laura snapped. "They're usually in my kit, my tools, but… someone must have taken them."

"Why would someone take your tools? Couldn't they go through this workshop if they needed any?" John asked.

Laura shrugged. John raised an eyebrow; Sherlock frowned. After a moment, John asked, "What sort of tools are missing?"

"Screwdriver, hammer, pliers, the usual," Laura sighed and sat down next to Fluffy. "I wanted to take a look at Fluffy's memory panels, see what could have caused him to wander into the mire, but…"

"When was the last time you saw those tools?" Sherlock demanded.

"This morning, right before Eliza brought her to you for introductions, I was talking to Dr. Stapleton," Laura muttered. "She was giving me back my screwdriver; she borrowed it the night before –"

"What for?" Sherlock asked, eyes lighting up.

"She needed to do something with it; she wouldn't say what."

"Ah." Sherlock turned to John. "John, don't scowl like that. You know it's dangerous to jump to conclusions." He smiled cheerily at Laura. "Thank you, Ms. Lyons, you've been very helpful."

* * *

><p>But they couldn't locate Dr. Stapleton. She'd made herself scarce in the labs, according to Dr. Frankland. Disgruntled, Sherlock and John returned to their room. As soon as they entered, Sherlock seated himself at his desk-now-turned-lab station and started going through his findings in the Carla Powers case. John took out his diary and started recording another entry.<p>

"Say," he muttered after a moment, "how'd you know that those boots were Carla's?"

"Contents of the mud," Sherlock drawled. "Vegetation, asphalt, brick dust, chlorine. I got the chemicals for the indicators from the Scientists."

"So she went somewhere where there was –"

"Yes, a typical Rec Centre. The chlorine's used in the pool; there was a lot of vegetation around the centre. Then there's the pollen found with the vegetation. Some of the grains come from Sussex, others from London. Carla Powers was from Brighton."

"Oh." John nodded, closing his diary. "I'm going to go for a walk, all right?"

"Suit yourself."

John left the room and walked down the hall, in search of Dr. Stapleton or the glass-walled wing, whichever he managed to find first. He noticed, to some consternation, that the glass-walled wing required identification to access, and it denied him entry.

Frowning, he was about to turn about and return to his room when Dr. Frankland arrived on the scene.

"Looking for Beryl?" he asked, in a voice several decibels above a reasonable inside tone. John winced. "She's gone to Coombe Tracey."

"Why would I be looking for Dr. Stapleton?"

"I dunno, I thought you knew she dabbles in Mechanics as a side hobby?"

"She does?" John's brows furrowed deeper.

"Yeah, she does." The other Scientist shifted his books from one arm to the other. "She's got a clockwork rabbit named Bluebell. Loves the poor thing; won't let it out of her sight. She's taken Bluebell to Coombe Tracey with her; said she needs to pick something up."

"Interesting." John shrugged. "I better be going."

"I can keep a look out on Dr. Stapleton for you, if you'd like," Frankland continued cheerily.

"That'd be nice, thanks." John smiled quickly and left, rushing back to his and Sherlock's room. Sherlock was still hovering over his microscope when John entered, a look of extreme concentration on his face.

"The entry into that glass-walled wing requires identification and Dr. Stapleton's gone to Coombe Tracey – she dabbles in Mechanics; isn't that a bit suspicious –"

"_Clostridium botulinum_!" Sherlock yelled, cutting across John's report.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"_Clostridium botulinum_, John. One of the most deadliest bacteria species in the world! That's how she died!"

"Moriarty murdered her with bacteria?"

"_Clostridium botulinum_ carries a strong neurotoxin that paralysed her muscles, leading to her drowning! She was poisoned! See, the sheen of lotion on the insides of her boots – it'd be easy to introduce the bacteria into that lotion, so that's where I got the trace amounts of bacteria. _C. botulinum _is susceptible to high salt levels, which corresponds to the traces of chlorine on the soles of her shoes despite the fact that most pools are treated with salt. That particular Rec Centre stirred controversy when it opened _because_ it used chlorine. It all works!"

"How come it wasn't in the autopsy, then?"

"They weren't looking for it; the bacteria are virtually undetectable."

"How are we going to let Moriarty know we've solved the case, then?"

Sherlock was already typing away at the laptop. "We get his attention."


	33. Flashing Lights

**Part XXXII**

_You're in luck._

Sarah stared at the screen in disbelief. She'd been trying to pretend this wasn't happening to her, that she wasn't tied to a chair in some darkened room – a chair wired to enough dynamite to take out an entire house – waiting for Sherlock Holmes to solve a puzzle. A pawn in a game. She wanted to believe that she was safe at home and that this was happening to someone else.

"Wh-what?" she stammered after a moment, trying her best to suppress the hope bubbling in her chest. Could it be?

_Go tell Sherlock to fetch you._ There was a taunting tone to that message, but Sarah ignored it as she dialled the number with shaking hands. She could hear the footsteps of the men who had kidnapped her retreat, leaving her in silence and darkness.

But she wasn't out of the woods yet. Sarah sobbed a pitiful plea for help as soon as she heard the Consulting Detective's rumbling baritone over the phone.

"H-he says you c-can come and fetch me," she blubbered. "Help, help me, please…"

"Address," Sherlock snapped at her. "Give me your location."

"Th-the Myrtles, B-Beckenham." Sarah sniffled. "Help…"

She could hear Sherlock talking to someone else on the other end. That other person's voice sounded familiar. She wondered why. After a moment, though, Sherlock spoke to her again.

"We're sending over help. Try not to move." With that, he hung up, leaving Sarah alone.

She wasn't sure how long she waited – it seemed interminably long, anyhow – but eventually there was the faint sound of sirens, and then the much louder sound of footsteps breaking down the door of this dark, dank room – and Sarah could tell she was crying again, but not out of fear. Someone was cutting her bonds free; someone else was escorting her out of the room; everyone was carefully making sure that the chair didn't go off. Sarah cried and cried until she was physically incapable, and then she fell into a thick, dreamless sleep as the police set an orange blanket around her shoulders.

* * *

><p>"How?"<p>

Sally Donovan turned from the windows looking into the room where Detective Inspector Gregson was talking quietly to the young Doctor they had just rescued.

"What?" Lestrade looked up from his papers.

"How?" Sally repeated the word, taking a seat across the table from Lestrade and fiddling with her fishnet gloves. "How did Sherlock know she was there?"

"The woman called him," Lestrade pointed out.

"Why? Why him? She could have called us first."

Lestrade frowned. "Well, perhaps she didn't know –"

"Didn't know how to contact us? We've known about 999 since primary school." Sally looked back at the room. "It's easier to dial than Sherlock's number, and he's all the way in Devon!"

"What are you suggesting?" Lestrade demanded.

"I'm saying it's suspicious that Sherlock knew about her location and situation when he's not even in the vicinity!"

"You're saying that you think he kidnapped her? You've got to be kidding me." Lestrade shook his head. "I know you hate his guts because of what happened three years ago, but –"

"And you're more inclined to favour him because you're shagging his brother, so what gives?" At that Lestrade bristled and blushed violently, causing Sally to raise an eyebrow. "You're no more qualified in your opinion of Sherlock Holmes than me."

"Sherlock's not much of a friend, yes, and he certainly acts like an arsehole –"

"He _is _an arsehole, what are you talking about –"

"But you've seen what he does, how he's served us for five years."

"But he knew she was tied to explosives and that she was at that particular address!"

"She called him before he called us!"

"She didn't have to go through him!"

"How would you know?" Lestrade shook his head. "She must have been forced to contact Sherlock; there was a screen in her room. Obviously someone was forcing her to read from the screen under pain of death." He looked at her seriously, and she stared back with defiant eyes. "You have a point, Sally, but the pieces aren't matching up. Sherlock couldn't have arranged for her to be kidnapped."

"He's a psychopath," Sally dismissed, turning away. "Psychopaths get bored."

* * *

><p>"What are you doing?" John demanded.<p>

"Waiting."

"Waiting!" John crossed the room to sit on the bed. The Consulting Detective sat at his desk, eyes fixed on the ceiling in utter boredom and hands pressed together in the thinking pose. "Sherlock, you're here to investigate the death of Sir Charles and to prevent the death of Sir Henry, not to wait for some puzzle from some psychotic criminal mastermind!"

"I've put my best man onto that," Sherlock replied dismissively.

"And who may that be?" John demanded. Sherlock stared pointedly at him. "Me? No. You've got to be kidding me."

"You may not have a brilliant mind, John, but as a conductor of brilliant thoughts you are simply unbeatable." Sherlock lowered his hands and continued to stare at John as if he's the most fascinating clockwork creature that the detective had ever seen. "You really ought to continue this little investigation of yours into the glass-wall wing and Dr. Stapleton's interesting hobby. Present me with data, and I'll go from there."

"And you can't do it yourself because?"

"Because I'm busy."

"Busy! You've been sitting there since dinner! Why, you've not even moved since I left!"

"And what did Dr. Mortimer say about Sir Henry?"

That question threw John for a loop, but eventually he remembered what Sherlock was referring to. "Oh. Well. Sir Henry thinks he's being followed."

Both of Sherlock's eyebrows shot up.

"He went to Coombe Tracey yesterday –"

"With or without Dr. Stapleton?"

"I don't know; I didn't ask."

"Right. Well, continue."

John sighed. "He went to Coombe Tracey yesterday and felt like he was being shadowed and apparently last night he was being kept up by snuffling noises outside his bedroom. Like some 'great black beast was trying to get in his window', according to Mortimer."

"And what happened this morning?"

"Mortimer found paw prints outside his window and Sir Henry thought he saw a black dog on the moor. His mental health's deteriorating, and _you're supposed to help him_!"

"Quaint," Sherlock sniffed.

"Sherlock!" John leapt up and stormed over to the Consulting Detective. "Do you care about any of this at all?"

"About what? About Sir Henry? Would I be able to cure his paranoia by caring about him?"

"No…"

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."

"And you find that easy, do you?"

"Yes. Very."

John made a scathing noise in the back of his throat. Sherlock looked up at him, expression calculating and serious.

"I've disappointed you," he remarked after a moment.

"Yeah, that's a good deduction," John deadpanned.

Sherlock sighed, turning away from his Protector. "Don't make people into heroes, John. They don't exist, and even if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

John stood there, watching Sherlock fiddle aimlessly with the microscope. He noticed the slump in the Consulting Detective's shoulders, the resigned air about him. Sherlock seemed sad, somehow. About what, John didn't know. But it struck something with him, something that made him want to drop his frustrations and wrap the other man in a hug and tell him that everything was going to be all right.

"Could you tell me why you're waiting, then? The Baskerville case can't possibly be that dull."

"No, of course not." Sherlock's back was squarely turned away from him; John could almost see the mental defences rising. "I'm trying to see how it fits in, trying to make the connections." From the desk drawer, he drew out a sheet of stationery, pen, and ink and started scribbling furiously. "There's a web, a web of crime and deceit and Moriarty is at the centre, he has to be…"

John nodded. "Right. I'll leave you to it, then." Seemed like he was the investigator for this case, at any rate, and there was no time like the present to start collecting more facts. He already had the suspect list, after all.

As he wandered through the mansion in search of the parlour where everyone tended to congregate after dinner, he noticed something odd through one of the hall windows. Away, in the direction of the glass-walled wing, there was a flashing light.

John's brows furrowed; he turned from the window with every intention to investigate and collided with Mycroft's Protector Assistant.

* * *

><p>Anthea had already confirmed that nothing more had happened at Baskerville since Sir Charles's death – all of the files were present and accounted for. Nothing more than the leakage of the Bruce-Partington Memory Key.<p>

However, that loss was serious. The Memory Key's contents may have been copies, but they were some of the most crucial files to the project. They contained crucial sets of memories, memories that could trigger responses – and if the recent spike in criminal activity meant anything, then the response had already taken place under Mycroft's nose. No use crying over spilled axle grease.

Mycroft, however, had also wanted her to keep an eye on Sherlock as well. So Anthea wasn't going anywhere for the time being.

Her collision with Sherlock's Protector Assistant hadn't been painful and he had profusely apologised in a very familiar voice, so she decided to humour him.

"Do you need anything?" she asked.

"Oh, um, on second thought, yes." John Watson had fair hair, an earnest face, and kind eyes – but she knew that beneath the soft exterior lay a hardened soldier. The government could take him out of Turkey, but they couldn't take Turkey out of him. This held true for all military people, even Army Surgeons like Watson.

"What is it?"

"I was wondering if… um… do you remember me?"

"You're Mr. Sherlock Holmes's Protector."

"Well, yes, but…" John laughed, miming something. Anthea frowned. He seemed to be holding a phone to his ear. "We've talked before."

"We have?"

"Over the phone."

"Oh." Anthea remembered. Yes, she remembered that very well – no wonder his voice sounded familiar. He was the friend who had told her that Arthur had been shot. He had told her not to worry, that he was Arthur's friend and that he'd try to get her brother through. But Arthur hadn't made it through.

Her thoughts must have shown on her face, because John's expression went from sheepish to concerned in an instant. "I… oh cog, did I upset you? I didn't…"

"No, no, it's fine." Anthea nodded. "You got him to safety, and that's what matters. Besides, you were shot, too."

A shadow flickered over John's face. "Yeah."

"So, what do you want?" Anthea smiled bravely.

"Access to that wing over there, with the glass walls."

Anthea drew her breath in sharply. "I don't know if that's…"

"Please?"

Well, it couldn't hurt, could it? Anthea pondered it over. "You do know what that wing contains?"

"Stuff about the Legacy Project, I bet."

"Yes. The labs and the archives are there. As well as… the vaults…" Anthea trailed off, looking unsure. "But I guess I could..." she sighed. "Give me a moment."

She dialled out a textogram to Mycroft, asking for advice. Within moments, he responded.

_Access granted.  
>Mycroft<em>

* * *

><p>"You can go," Anthea told John, smiling sadly at him. "But I'd suggest staying away. Who knows what it might do to you."<p>

"I'll handle it," John replied, feeing excitement bubble in his stomach. Perhaps for once he'd get answers to something, and then Sherlock's interest in the case would be rekindled. It made him almost dizzy with euphoria. "Thank you so much!"

Her smile only grew sadder. John thought it was all quite odd as he raced along the hallway towards the wing.

The unlocking mechanisms behind the door sprung to life as soon as he slid his identification card, granting him access to the heart and home of the Legacy Project. The glass walls betrayed little; more rooms and more walls stretched before him, doors of metal and wood. The flickering lights came from a strange machine in the centre of the room – it appeared to be a light and an engine at the same time, flashing intermittently as the pistons ran on and on.

One of the doors to his right was open. John crept towards it, heart racing. The interior was lit; he peered in.

He looked in upon a room filled from ceiling to floor with books. But they weren't arrayed along the wall; they were arrayed in double helices, twisted ladders. The structure of deoxyribonucleic acid.

And standing in the midst of this were Eliza and John Barrymore.


	34. Connecting the Dots

**Part XXXIII**

There had to be a connection. There_ had_ to. Sherlock took his scribblings and walked over to the boudoir. There was a pincushion and an embroidery kit sitting there; he grabbed several of the pins and started pinning down the papers.

From each paper he wound out a scarlet thread, connecting the dots and the names. Carla Powers died in the same Rec Centre as James Phillimore, who worked at the same place as Andrew West, who was killed by Sebastian Moran. Sebastian Moran also killed Ronald Adair and possibly the smugglers – Sebastian Moran had recently escaped from Pentonville Prison and was nowhere to be found.

That was a bit unsettling, considering he was one of the most dangerous men in London.

Irene Adler had consulted a Professor – most likely Moriarty since there were few Professors who were also dabbling in crime – to become a Courtesan, and in return she provided Moriarty with a key. The Bruce-Partington Memory Key. The files on the key were crucial to the Legacy Project, and while they had been copied, the fact that Moriarty was in possession of these files was obviously quite worrying.

The only real issue was that Sherlock had no definitive proof, beyond the name shouted by a dead Cab Driver, that Moriarty was truly connected in any of this. Irene's letter didn't name Moriarty; the Rucastles carried no proof that Moriarty was involved in their dealings. A court of law was not going to take "I'm sure because I'm not sure" for evidence.

He needed a paper trail, solid evidence. Even the game Moriarty was playing with him with the brass laptop couldn't be traced back to him. Sherlock unwound more and more thread until the room was a mess, a web of scarlet string.

That was the moment when John walked in, eyes wide. He paused right before he walked right into the string and stared at Sherlock.

"What the hell are you doing?" the Protector asked after a moment.

"Thinking."

"And messing up the room while you're at it, I see."

"It's conducive to thought."

John smiled quickly, but Sherlock noticed that his cheery expression seemed to waver, as if he was exerting effort to keep it up. "Something wrong?" he asked.

"The Archives." John wove his way through the thread maze and took a seat. "In the glass-walled wing, there's this room full of books. They're arranged on these conveyor belts in the shape of a twisted ladder."

"Deoxyribonucleic acid," Sherlock muttered.

"Yes, possibly." John nodded. "The Barrymores were in the room, reading some of the books."

"Did you go in?"

"Yeah, they saw me and they promptly replaced the books and left. I don't know why."

"What's on the books?"

"This code." John grabbed a spare sheet of paper and started writing the letters G, C, A, and T in different patterns. "Four letters, only four letters. Repeating constantly, grouped into threes."

"Codons."

John nodded. "Nucleotides, grouped into codons? Do you think so?"

"Possibly."

Ever since the publishing of the theory of evolution by Charles Darwin, ever since the publishing of the works of Gregor Mendel, the scientific and technological world had made huge leaps and bounds in genetic research. As a result, they'd managed to create realistic clockwork creatures to replace those they'd killed; they'd managed to create realistic clockwork droids to serve humanity. It was all a simple matter of translating the necessary codes into cogs and machines; as a result, the very fundamentals of life and the very fundamentals of machinery relied on similar coding.

Sherlock contemplated the information. Obviously the books held specific sequences of codons, specific amino acids. Therefore, the Legacy Project held more than just memories. It didn't even hold just ordinary people's memories – no, the Legacy Project held specific people's memories, and more.

So if Moriarty went to the trouble of taking some of the most important files in the Project, then he must be interested in it as well. Somehow, Moriarty's interest in Sherlock and the Legacy Project suggested that the Legacy Project was connected to Sherlock.

"So?" John asked. "What's all this about, then? An archive of nucleotides and some project about memories –"

"It's not just memories." Sherlock frowned, still thinking as he absentmindedly started unravelling the web. Why would someone kill Sir Charles with a dog, mechanical or not? Why would someone try to drive Sir Henry crazy? He tried his best not to conjecture, but that infernal word ran through his head. Why?

"What do you mean?"

"We're going out onto the moor tomorrow night." Sherlock's expression was grim.

"I thought you were letting me do the investigating."

"Mm, yes, and you told me something that's making me theorise, and I need to test the theory. Therefore, we need to go onto the moor and see what's tormenting Sir Henry. Tomorrow."

* * *

><p>The next morning brought a bleary-eyed Sir Henry to the breakfast table. Dr. Mortimer sent John a worried look. John nodded. Sherlock scrutinised Sir Henry.<p>

"How far is it from here to Coombe Tracey?" he asked suddenly.

"About an hour's drive, what for?" Dr. Mortimer asked.

"Mm, nothing." Sherlock smiled. "Did you sleep well last night, Sir Henry?"

"Not a wink, I'm afraid."

"Why not?"

"Bright lights."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Bright lights?"

"They kept flashing, flashing. On, off, on, off." Sir Henry groaned before leaning in towards them. "How are you going with the investigation?"

"Splendid! We're going to keep vigil outside your bedroom tonight to see if anything attacks you."

A pause. Sir Henry frowned. "What?"

"Well, it seems as if all of your troubles happen after the entire house has gone to bed. We'll be wandering around on the moor for a bit as well. No need to worry about us."

"Sherlock, you can't be serious," John groaned.

"I need to see if the thing that's bothering him is the same that killed Sir Charles." Sherlock quickly got up. "We'll start by narrowing down the possible places that the dog or M.A.T.I.N. could have come from. Eliminate the impossible. Coombe Tracey is an hour's drive, possibly about two hours' walk from here. Someone could have brought the dog over and hid it, or the attack could have come from someone at the Hall. The first order of business, then, is to search for the biggest dog or M.A.T.I.N. in Coombe Tracey. Narrow down the list." He turned to John. "Come along, then."

The Protector Assistant sighed, got up, and left the room with his charge. "All right, what was that about?" he asked.

"We're going to raid the labs," Sherlock replied quickly. "This Baskerville thing is linked to the Legacy Project in more ways than sharing house space. I need to find those missing tools."

"You're not waiting on the puzzles?"

"It's all part of the game." Sherlock swept a hand around the corridor. "Moriarty's trying to distract me. He's set to go on trial, but I doubt he'll be convicted. Despite his face being plastered all over surveillance droid memory plates… no, he'd buy out the jury and possibly the judge."

John frowned. "They're going to acquit him despite his attempt to steal the Crown Jewels?"

"Yes, yes." Sherlock arrived at the door leading into the glass-walled room. "Come on, then. Slide the card."

John slid his identification card, granting them access once more into the room. The strange lamp-engine thing was turned off. Sherlock walked over to the glass windows, looking out.

"Sir Henry's room is over there," he said, pointing across. "Next to ours. He could have seen this as his flashing light, but I'm not sure how it got so bright."

"Do you want to see the book room?" John asked.

"In a moment. I need to go through the labs."

Outside the fenestrated walls, Dartmoor shone bleak, but beautiful. The sky was a smoky blue; the hills of rocks and tors broke the horizon into jagged shapes. At night it would become a breeding ground for nightmares. It was easy for anyone to believe that a giant hound could drive them mad with such scenery.

John could hear Sherlock rummaging through the labs behind him. He had half a mind to help, but Sherlock probably wanted to see everything with his own eyes. John continued to look out the window, then, listening for any sign of footsteps, any sign of someone who may want to bother with their investigations.

"Well, well, well." Sherlock sounded rather smug as he left the labs. "Look what I found on Dr. Stapleton's desk." He held up a paintbrush. "Coated with a sticky paint reminiscent of phosphorous."

"What's that got to do with…?"

"Newly bought. Paint's from Coombe Tracey. This is what she went into town for."

"What'd you find in Frankland's lab?"

"Tools." Sherlock turned in the direction of the book room. "This is what you saw last night?"

John entered the room behind his charge, nodding. "Yeah, that looks like it."

"Hm." Sherlock tapped his chin thoughtfully, before starting to pace back and forth, stomping occasionally. John watched him, wondering what he was doing. After a moment, Sherlock sighed and said, "Look, there's got to be more than just this. More to the project, I mean. Memories aren't coded into nucleotide codons. There's gotta be something that has to do with genetics in here."

At that moment, he stepped on a tile adjacent to the wall just as Dr. Frankland arrived on the scene, red-faced and jovial from breakfast.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson! What a surprise!" he laughed, patting his belly. "I was having a good hearty breakfast. Excellent nosh at this place! But I say, what are you two doing here?"

"Investigating," John replied. "Looking for clues."

"You won't find anything interesting here," scoffed Frankland. "Off you go."

"Usually people who aren't concerned about what they're trying to hide will let the investigation go on. What's making you so eager to keep us out of it?" Sherlock asks.

"You're simply in the wrong room," Dr. Frankland replied hastily. "Say, have you two met Bluebell?"

"Dr. Stapleton's rabbit? No."

"He's back in Laura's workshop. Beryl's given him a new coat. Luminous paint."

"We'll be sure to check out Bluebell the luminous fairy-rabbit soon," Sherlock deadpanned. "What can you tell us about this room?"

Dr. Frankland laughed. "Oh, you're very funny, Mr. Holmes."

"I wasn't trying to be so."

"Really? Because if I told you about that, I'd have to kill you!" And with that, the Scientist dissolved into more giggles. Sherlock and John exchanged glances.

John wondered why he was looking forward to spending the night on the moor.

* * *

><p>Barry Cartwright was a proud member of the Baker Street Irregulars. He was part-African, with earnest brown eyes and a ready smile. Tipping his cap to Wiggins, he traipsed up the street in search of his usual informant.<p>

The surveillance droid whirred in recognition as Barry came closer. It rolled over to him, cameras scanning the street as it typed out a message on a strip of paper and gave it to him.

_Target goes on trial this weekend._

"Thank'ee kindly!" Barry chirped, doffing his cap at the droid before running off in the direction of Baker Street. Reaching 221B, he pulled the door-lever eagerly. No response.

Frowning, Barry knocked. Still no response.

"Looking for Mr. Holmes?" A man with goggles in his silver-flecked hair had stopped to lean against the fence, smiling at the orphan.

"Gotta message fer'im, sir," Barry replied, tipping his cap to the man as well.

"I see." The man nodded. "He's away, though. You can give the message to me."

"Can't, sir, he told me ter give it t'im."

"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade from the Yard. He knows who I am."

"If ye swear not t'open it 'fore it gets t'im, then all right." Barry folded up the paper and handed it to the Inspector. "Tell 'im it's from Cartwright."

"I shall." Lestrade smiled, slipping the paper into his pocket. Barry nodded, tipped his cap yet again, and rushed away. Lestrade's smile then faded as he looked up at the closed door of 221B. Mrs. Hudson had gone to visit Mrs. Turner next door; he'd seen her go out this morning when he rode by on the way to the Yard. He considered going over to give her the message, but then reckoned he might as well get it to Sherlock via textogram.

At that precise moment, his phone rang. Lestrade picked up; Inspector MacDonald was on the other end.

"Have you seen Toby?"

"Your little Clerk boyfriend?"

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end. "How did you…?"

"I'm not Sherlock, but I can tell when someone's been messing with the Clerk on his coffee break," Lestrade deadpanned. "Why are you asking?"

"He's not here."

Meanwhile, miles away, a young male Clerk sat blubbering in a darkened room, staring fearfully at the screen and listening fearfully to the ticking noises of the clockwork bomb under the chair he was strapped to.

Hands shaking, he reached out and dialled the number on the screen.


	35. Tragedy at Birlstone

**Part XXXIV**

The sun set over the moor, bright reds and oranges rapidly dimming into rich purples and blues. The heath clung to the fog that slowly snaked through from the mire, and the craggy silhouette of the hills in the distance made the earth seem like the maw of a great beast, waiting to snap the world up. Fog descended, low and thick, upon the lonely Baskerville Hall. The lamps were lit; the lamp in the glass-walled wing flickered brightly like a mechanical firefly. Despite the Hall's best intentions to appear well lit and welcoming, it ended up resembling a candle in space – insignificant.

John shivered in the dark and drew his coat closer to him. The coat was thick, woollen, dark, double-breasted. It sported brass buttons, numerous pockets, and buckles along the back. He had worn it in Alexandria; it had been a going-away gift from his mother.

His poor mother. The last time John had seen her, she'd been sick, polluted by bad factory air and alcohol in her liver. A couple of weeks after that visit, when John was being shipped back out, she had died. She had been a Factory Manager – textiles – and she hadn't, unlike others, distanced herself from the Workers. She often worked alongside them like she had played alongside them as children. The separation between them, between the proletariat and the bourgeoisie, did not form like it had for many others. And she, by sharing their lifestyle, had fallen to their vices.

John was jerked out of his reverie by a ring from Sherlock's phone. The Consulting Detective, who stood next to him in his own dark coat, answered it on speakers.

A shudder of breath. The voice was deeper than the last, more masculine. But it sounded young, too, like a man who was younger than them but old enough for an Assignment. One of the newly-Assigned, perhaps. He was crying.

"Eh-eh-it's okay that you've gone to the police," he intoned through his sobs. "B-but don't rely on them. Th-they might t-turn on you."

"You've stolen another voice," Sherlock murmured.

"C-c-clever you." There was a slight whining noise. "Geh-guessing about Carla Powers. I never liked her much. Carla laughed at me, s-so I stopped her laughing."

John frowned, but in the dark that was a waste of gesture. A low, soft sob came from the man on the other end of the phone.

"This… this next puzzle is r-right at your doorstep. Two children h-have gone missing."

"Kidnapped?" Sherlock asked.

"Kidnapped," affirmed the young man, before breaking into more sobs. "You solved my last problem in one day." He paused for a moment, trying to rein in his sniffles. "Th-this time you have two days."

John's hand unconsciously reached for Sherlock's, squeezing his fingers. Sherlock jerked his hand back for a second before returning the squeeze, slowly, hesitantly.

"Where did they disappear?" Sherlock asked.

"Coombe Tracey," was the response before the line went dead and a howl rent the air – Sherlock nearly dropped his phone.

"Oh god," John breathed, turning on his torch and cocking his revolver. Sherlock took the torch, shining it in the direction of the howls. John carefully raised the gun, pointing it along the beam of light. But there was nothing there.

"Henry's window," Sherlock muttered, looking at the fog swirling around their ankles.

"We should check," agreed John, once more grabbing Sherlock's hand and steering them in the direction of the Hall. They raced through the darkness, Sherlock flashing the torch to and fro looking for something, anything that could have made the howl. The light shifted erratically from tuft to tuft of heather and grass. The night splintered with hellish howls that sent chills racing down the two men's spines. It almost seemed as if more than one hound was pursuing them – Sherlock at one point turned and pointed the torchlight back to see, for a heart-stopping second – a pair of glowing red eyes. His hand tightened, clammy with sweat, against John's.

They reached Sir Henry's window and pressed themselves against the stone of the Hall. The window was slightly ajar. Sherlock examined it with his magnifying goggles.

"Someone's kept it ajar," he whispered. "Jammed the closing mechanism on the window."

"This fog is really thick," John muttered, and sure enough the fog seemed to be even thicker around Sir Henry's window, swirling almost around their torsos. Cries and howls rang through the air – it was almost like an entire pack of hounds was out to get them. Sherlock shone the light; there was nothing there.

"Do you see anything?" John whispered.

"Nothing," Sherlock muttered, trembling slightly. He cast the light through the mist as it cleared slightly – enough for him to see the paw prints on the ground.

"Bloody hell," John breathed. "They're fresh, too."

"Can't tell if they're mechanical or real." An icy shard of fear pierced his heart. Sherlock's trembling hands made the light shake. The mist covered up the prints.

There suddenly came a distinct heavy panting noise in the bushes. Sherlock nearly clung to John in fear; he felt like bashing his head against the wall for his weakness. This wasn't happening to him. This simply wasn't.

"How are you feeling?" he asked John.

"Odd," replied the Protector Assistant. "Cold, stressed, fearful. Moreso than normal."

Sherlock took a deep breath, looked down at the mist, and nodded. "What do you see?"

John squinted, looking along the beam of light. Sherlock shone it at the clump of bushes, where the panting had come from. After a moment, the Protector frowned.

"Could've sworn I saw something glowing," he replied.

"There's something unnatural about this fog," Sherlock muttered, noting just how white his knuckles were on the torch handle. "We need to get out of it. Now."

A low growling accompanied them back into the Hall, which seemed unnaturally bright. They stumbled down the hallway and back into their room, neither one trusting themselves to speak.

After a moment, though, Sherlock spoke up.

"That fog was put under Sir Henry's window for a reason."

* * *

><p>The next morning, Laura Lyons seemed to be storming about the place determined to ignore Dr. Stapleton. Sherlock had left for Coombe Tracey in the morning; he'd snuck out and left John behind. John had made a mental note to scold him about it when he returned. He would have gone after his wayward charge, except for the fact that Sherlock had insisted he investigate the Baskerville case, and Laura's behaviour at breakfast was compelling enough to convince John that going after Sherlock would make him miss the clues.<p>

At this rate, he would end up just as cold-hearted as Sherlock.

"What exactly is going on?" he asked Rodger Perkins as they walked down the yew alley. Perkins looked out at the moor, shrugging.

"I dunno, but ever since Sir Charles died things have been a bit tense."

"Really." They reached the moor-gate. John leaned on it, looking out as well. The sky was grey, complementing the dark muted tones of moor, mire, and cliffs. He felt a chill strike his bones. Thick fog hovered over the mire.

"Well, Jack and Beryl were close friends of Sir Charles." Perkins sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Even closer than the Barrymores. And then when he died, well… Beryl got over it well enough, I guess. But Jack's always talking about how much he misses Sir Charles. It's funny though; Laura told me that Beryl had rather fancied Sir Charles, and now I guess she's taken a liking to Sir Henry."

John frowned. "Odd, I never noticed. I've barely seen her, though, to be fair."

Perkins rolled his eyes. "Laura and Beryl have been childhood friends. Went to the same comprehensive school. It's odd to see them fighting, but I guess it could be because Laura thought Beryl had abandoned her for Jack and Sir Charles. Or at least that could be what's making her get so mad about the M.A.T.I.N.s being painted."

"They were painted?"

"Just yesterday. You might have seen them on guard last night? Not hard to miss anymore. Now it'll be easier for us to find them at night."

"It's the glowing paint that Dr. Stapleton bought at Coombe Tracey, isn't it?" John sighed, jotting down little notes in his book for future reference.

"The very same." Perkins nodded. "Look here. Don't tell them I told you any of this, all right? They might think I'm blabbing about private concerns to random strangers and… well. What we do is really secret and important, after all. Can't afford to look weak."

"I understand." John smiled. "I won't tell anyone other than Sherlock about this." He looked over at the glass-walled wing, as if trying to summon the courage to ask something. "Say, what exactly is the Legacy Project about? I know it's got something to do with genetics and memory, but –"

"I really can't say." Perkins shuffled from one foot to the other. "I'd love to help you with this; you really need to know the truth. But I can't tell you." Suddenly his eyes were sad, extremely so. It reminded John of Anthea's melancholy smile and the expression the Barrymores gave him when he first discovered the book room. "It's better if you and Sherlock found out for yourselves."

"And how do we do that?" John asked.

Perkins shook his head.

* * *

><p>As John stood at the moor-gate long after Rodger Perkins left, Sherlock had arrived at Birlstone, a boarding comp school for lower-class children.<p>

The education system remained very similar to what had been the norm before the Assignment Agency – the rich sent their children to public schools or private tutors and the state swept up the rest with under-funded state schools. The Assignment Agency, by dictating the number of Teachers who were to be trained each year, managed to marginally improve state-funded schools – comprehensive schools, or comp schools – but still the best education was often found in public schools which were largely closed to the lower class save for the best and brightest on scholarships. Since the lower class was the class in which Assignments were compulsory, the criteria for determining Assignments was almost completely centred on the student's academic achievements and academic behaviour. Assignment Agents often appeared at schools; they observed their charges and met with them occasionally to keep up with their interests.

However, the most important aspect of a student's Assignment would be their performance on the O-level. The Ordinary Level examinations, held the year prior to any given class's Assignment Year, determined if a student was good enough for a more specialised Assignment than Worker. There was a separate test for each course of study taken at school, and the grading ranged from A-star to G. Performance in each subject was said to determine whether a person who was good at maths and literature would end up in a maths-related Assignment or a literature-related Assignment, and those who achieved low grades on the tests were practically guaranteed a life as a Worker.

As part of the Assignment application process, Sherlock had to take the assessments as well. Naturally he passed all of the courses in subjects he deemed relevant, and failed everything else.

But back to Birlstone. The Headmaster, a Mr. John Douglas, showed Sherlock to the dorms of the two missing children. Both were girls in the primary school.

Sherlock immediately started looking around at the easel, the art supplies, the overturned paint cans, and the copy of _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ sitting on one of the girls' beds. He looked for footprints, fingerprints, even bloodstains. After a moment, he went back to the overturned paint cans, frowning.

"Close the shutters. I need darkness," he told Mr. Douglas, who immediately sent for a set of clockwork droids. Everything was rendered pitch black, and suddenly the floor and walls were alight with a luminescent message.

"I'd seen the paint before," Sherlock muttered. "One of the girls was an artist. The other loved Alice in Wonderland. Both girls were avid fans of detective stories, possibly the stories of my namesake…" he gestured to the worn magnifying glass next to the copy of _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ as he left the room and tried to recreate the scene in his mind. "They were up past curfew – you maintain a strict 'students out of the hallways' policy here, don't you, Mr. Douglas?"

"Well, yes, of course," blustered Mr. Douglas. "How could you tell?"

"The rigid squares on your neatly-ironed cravat, the square pin held right over one of the squares, the overall starched appearance – you're a very rigid man in your dress, so obviously you would do the same in your policies. The girls were up past curfew when they heard the noise of someone in the hall, someone whose silhouette against their door seemed to be holding a weapon. He was smoking a pipe; the ash fell from it twice outside their door, and he'd stopped to put out the pipe. They could see the outline of his appearance by the moonlight hitting the frosted glass on this door."

"All right, and then what?" Mr. Douglas sighed, mopping his forehead with a chequered pocket square.

"One girl, the artist, started to write a message on the wall." Sherlock gestured to the message, which read:

_WE ARE DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE –  
>43-33 70-60 12-44 18-61 18-31 8-1 2-20 CLOCKWORK 57-43<em>

"Can you make anything of that?" wondered Mr. Douglas. Sherlock stared at it for a moment.

"Numbers come with partners," he muttered. "It's a code, devised the girls long before their kidnap. Judging by the reference to going down the rabbit hole, it must be a book code that uses their copy of _Alice in Wonderland_."

And there, Sherlock could almost swear he heard John ask, "So the numbers refer to page numbers and specific words on those pages, right?" But that was preposterous; John was back at Baskerville Hall. Sherlock hid a smile and had the lights turned back on so he could decode the message.

He quickly flipped through the pages of their book. Within moments, the message was clear.

_HELP US WE ARE LOST WITH THE CLOCKWORK KNAVE._

"Clockwork knave," Sherlock muttered, thoughtfully. "Clockwork knave, now where…"

He dimly remembered that there was a Knave of Hearts who went on trial in _Alice _for stealing the Queen's tarts – sounded a lot like Moriarty, but he couldn't jump to conclusions – and that a knave was more commonly known as a liar, a cheat – or perhaps a male domestic worker – or perhaps –

"The Jack." Sherlock clapped his hands together. "Oh, this is perfect. This really is."

And with that, he shoved the book into a surprised Mr. Douglas's hands and rushed away.


	36. The Hound of the Baskervilles

**Part XXXV**

John examined the strange contraption half-buried in the mire, something he had mistook for an odd misshapen rock on the edge of the moor. It was certainly designed to resemble that, but obviously once someone got closer the machine became less rock-like and more metallic, with steel panels and rivets and what seemed to be a giant tank of some sort of liquid.

Next to the contraption – which looked eerily like some sort of gas machine – sat a giant pool of muddy water with the faintest hint of something in its murky depths. John frowned, looking around for something long enough to probe into the mud.

His eyes fell on a walking stick. A very familiar-looking walking stick.

What was Dr. Mortimer's stick doing here?

* * *

><p>Sherlock jumped on the next steamcart carrying supplies to Baskerville Hall and urged the Driver to go faster with a couple of banknotes. The currency exchanged hands; the steamcart hurtled out of Coombe Tracey and towards the moor without a moment to lose. The open-air design of the cart caused Sherlock's hair and scarf to whip violently in the wind; he had to put his goggles over his eyes to see. The Driver wore aviator goggles and cap for a reason.<p>

The steamcart stopped in front of Baskerville Hall and Sherlock rushed out, running into the mansion to look for John, who was nowhere to be found. He located Dr. Mortimer, demanding to know where John was.

"He took a walk after breakfast. Hasn't returned since."

Outside, the morning had slipped into noon and now afternoon, and Sherlock's blood ran cold.

"He didn't report to lunch?" he demanded.

"Not at all."

Sherlock rushed out of the house, running down the yew alley brimming with apprehension and excitement. The tension coiled in his stomach released slightly when he saw, to his immense relief, John standing a little ways into the mire, poking at a pool of stagnant muddy water.

"What are you doing?" he shouted at John, carefully deducing which pieces of ground were safe to step on as he manoeuvred his way to his Protector's side.

"Fishing," John deadpanned. Sherlock grinned. "Fishing for clues."

Sherlock could make out a dark bundle as the grime rippled around John's stick.

"That's Dr. Mortimer's stick," he noted.

"Yes."

"And the machine…" Sherlock frowned. "You saw the piping on the machine, didn't you?"

"Piping?"

"Get that thing fished out." Sherlock gestured for John to continue, and John did so, finally surfacing with a bundle hooked around the handle of the walking-stick. The clock on the handle would never be the same again, but that was hardly an issue at the moment. Sherlock unrolled the bundle – it appeared to be a dark coat, a dark-coloured scarf, a dark wig.

"What's this?" John asked.

"You don't need me to point it out to you," Sherlock replied. "It's painfully obvious that this is a disguise." There was something extremely wrong about it – something that suggested that the culprit… "The culprit was in disguise when he kidnapped them," he murmured.

"Kidnapped who?"

"The children, the children in the puzzle! It's tied to this; this is tied to Moriarty twice over!" Sherlock would have leapt for joy and excitement at seeing the pieces come together, had he not been standing on the banks of a piece of extremely unreliable marshland. "The piping goes from the machine to under the marsh; we need to figure out where it leads. I've already a very good idea where."

"And where would that be?"

"Right underneath Sir Henry's window. I said that fog was put underneath his window for a reason. The machine is right here." Sherlock twisted some valves, brought out a phial – John shouldn't be surprised that he had one handy; he was _Sherlock_, after all – and collected some of the tank's contents. "What's in here should be one of the final clues. Oh this is all so _brilliant_, yes…"

John nodded, straightening up with the walking stick and the disguise. Sherlock bundled everything back up and replaced them, drawing out his mobile and dialling a number.

"Lestrade? Yeah, get down here; we've got something for you. Bring an unsigned arrest warrant."

* * *

><p>They'd searched throughout London, but there was no sign of young Tobias Jones, the Clerk who had been having an affair with Inspector MacDonald. Said Inspector was one step away from donning mourning.<p>

Lestrade looked over at him as he hung up on Sherlock, letting a sympathetic smile creep onto his face. "I'm sorry," he told MacDonald.

"Mm." MacDonald sighed. "I can cover for you; go see what Sherlock's got."

Lestrade nodded, smiling as he got up, collected his things, and left. He hailed the first cab he could find to the air-docks, where several airships and floating steamers were docked. Buying a last-minute ticket onto the A.S. Friesland, he boarded hastily just as the warning whistle sounded.

By the time he disembarked from the airship at Coombe Tracey, the sun was starting to set behind the hills and tors along the moor. It threw the cliffs and solitary rocks into sharp, jagged silhouettes against the waning light. As he stepped down from the air-dock, he spotted Sherlock and John waiting for him next to a cab.

"What's this, then?" Lestrade asked, clambering into the cab before the two of them. Sherlock plopped into the driver's seat and pulled a lever; the cab took off towards Baskerville Hall. "What am I doing out here with an unsigned arrest warrant?"

"Disabling two M.A.T.I.N.s with one spanner," Sherlock replied calmly.

"Cheerful." Lestrade leaned forward. "How?"

"We were sent to investigate the suspicious death of Sir Charles. Seemed like some hound – mechanical or real – tore his throat out, and we had to find the person who enabled it to do so." John looked out at the countryside as the cab clattered on into the darkening twilight. "At the same time, Sherlock received a call from some young man informing him of a kidnapping at a comp school in Coombe Tracey, and now that and the Baskerville case are somehow linked."

Sherlock continued to look ahead. "The country air's so lovely, isn't Lestrade? Getting London out of your lungs?"

"Mm, nice." Lestrade inhaled the pure country air. "You two've been having the lion's share of good air, though, or so I've heard."

"From Sussex to London to here. Quite." Sherlock's voice was terse, guarded. He was tense about something, possibly the subsequent actions.

As they neared Baskerville Hall, however, Sherlock diverted the carriage several yards away from the gate and got out, signalling that John and Lestrade should do the same. They did so; Sherlock quickly pulled several levers and pushed a couple of buttons, programming the mechanical horses to march through the gates and head straight for the coach-house. They set off on foot, cutting across the moor.

"I'm sure we're all waiting for the day Mycroft finally approves the production of mechanical horses that run on autopilot," Sherlock remarked drily as they did so.

"He hasn't already?" Lestrade asked.

"Thinks there may be too much to program," Sherlock replied.

They continued in silence, as darkness settled around them. Baskerville Hall was screened by gates, hedges, but there was the moor-gate that led to the yew alley – that fateful place where Sir Charles had met his death.

"I've told Sir Henry that he should meet us at the moor-gate," Sherlock said as they drew near, skirting the edges of the mire. But even as they reached the gate, there came a sudden grating sound, like the starting of a giant machine hidden in the darkness. Lestrade twitched in shock.

"The machine begins. It's far enough from the house that no one there will take any notice." Sherlock's face is calm; he looked out at the moor and then back up at the house. The clanking of the machine died down to a smooth humming. The first wisps of fog curled in the air, snaking towards them. Up at the Hall and evident by the light of the moon, a similar blanket of fog coated the ground outside Sir Henry's room.

Lestrade watched the fog thicken. Sherlock and John looked at each other; John was gripping his revolver hard enough to whiten his knuckles. Sherlock watched him calmly, as if knowing his plans would play out perfectly.

He didn't seem to be disappointed when suddenly out of the fog came the silhouette of a man. Sir Henry was walking down to them, lantern in hand and anxious expression on his face.

"Sherlock?" he called. "Sherlock, I can't see you through the fog –"

The howl of a hound cut through the air. Sherlock nodded at John, who turned about and aimed for the machine, shooting it. It spluttered, but the gas continued to pour through. Sir Henry was drawing nearer; he seemed panicked about something – it was no wonder, since Lestrade was also feeling extremely panicky.

"Oh my cogs and gears, it's the hound, it's the hound!" Sir Henry screamed as John aimed for the machine again. The young lord fumbled the lock, looking backwards with a panicked expression on his face. The howling increased in intensity and blood-chilling power. As he drew his gun, Lestrade could have sworn his legs were buckling.

The moor-gate swung open; the three of them rushed through. Sherlock drew a pistol from his pocket as the howling intensified yet again, the fog swirled thickly, and Sir Henry screamed with terror at the thing heading straight for them.

The hound was immense. It had once been a M.A.T.I.N, obviously, but now it had been modified into some terrifying mechanical hellhound. Its howling had dimmed into low, menacing growls as it opened its maw, exposing knife-like teeth. It glowed, a sickly phosphorescent green. Its eyes shone red; in the lantern-light they could see specks of rust from where blood had splashed onto its metallic surface.

"Are you seeing what I'm seeing?" Lestrade breathed, taking a step back in horror.

"Possibly," Sherlock replied. "There's something in the fog. I had it tested this afternoon – it was colourless absinthe. That machine is dispersing absinthe in aerosol form, and while the spirit itself is not hallucinogenic, it seems that the mixture found in the machine has been contaminated with poisonous adulterants commonly found in cheap absinthe. Once filtered and processed, it intensified the fear and paranoia and caused a naturally dangerous M.A.T.I.N. to look like a hellhound."

"That's great, but how are we going to escape the thing?" The four men slowly backed away from the M.A.T.I.N., Sir Henry shakily drawing his own revolver.

John took the first shot, aiming for the eyes. The bullet bounced off the metal, but the mechanical hound was provoked enough to charge, snarling and barking. Sherlock, Lestrade, and Henry fired at the same time; Lestrade's bullet lodged into the hound's side but the other two ricocheted. John yelped in terror.

"No!" Sherlock screamed as the hound backed up to charge for his Protector. He moved in front of John, arms wide as if to shield him from the manic M.A.T.I.N., a look of rage and fierce protectiveness on his sharp, pale face. However, the M.A.T.I.N. stopped short of leaping at Sherlock and instead turned round to attack Henry, who fell to the ground grappling with the beast.

Lestrade shot at the M.A.T.I.N.'s back, over and over and over – the bullets pierced through the metal occasionally but still barely did any damage. Sir Henry was fighting with all his might, trying to fend off the M.A.T.I.N.

"Henry? Henry!" Another voice rang through the darkness. Dr. Mortimer was on the scene with his own gun in hand, looking about him wildly. "Henry!" His face paled; his mouth set into a determined line as he joined Lestrade in attempting to get the M.A.T.I.N. off of Henry. Sherlock wheeled about in the darkness, looking for another figure.

There came the distinct noise of someone breathing through a gas mask. Sherlock and John slipped away; Lestrade and Dr. Mortimer combined managed to get the snapping hound off Sir Henry, who now lay insensate. Dr. Mortimer fell to his knees next to his charge, hands trembling in anxiety. Lestrade grappled with the glowing hound, struggling to find the switch or the generator.

Pain shot up and down his body as he looked down, seeing the dark trickle of blood drip down his leg. The M.A.T.I.N. had bitten him in the struggle. Lestrade cried out in pain just as he heard a solid thump behind him. Moments later, John was at his side, fingers fumbling along the glowing hound's body. There was an unearthly shriek as he twisted something, and moments later the M.A.T.I.N. slumped, loosening Lestrade's leg as it slid to the ground.

"What," the Detective Inspector gasped, "was that?"

John knelt down next to him, digging through his utility belt to find a tourniquet and bandages. "I found the emergency switch. I saw the Mechanics fixing it a couple of days ago." He started to bandage Lestrade's legs. "Good job it didn't get your artery. You probably would have been a goner if it did."

Lestrade whimpered in pain and tried to cover that with a bout of coughing. Not too far away, Sir Henry was stirring.

"Where… where is it?" he asked feebly. John looked up, seeing the machine on the edge of the moor. He took aim and fired at it again and again until the fog stopped dispersing.

"Next to you," Sherlock said.

Sir Henry turned his head to see the limp form of Fluffy the M.A.T.I.N. on the ground next to him, his features restored to a noble, albeit still glowing, expression.

"Dead?" he asked.

"No, temporarily shut off." Sherlock sounded smug for some reason. "Look what we caught in our nets, gentlemen!"

The lantern was swiftly rekindled – it'd gone out when Sir Henry had fallen – and its light caught the defiant face of Jack Frankland, the Scientist. Sherlock was holding his arms in a vice-like grasp behind his back. He grabbed the left wrist, tore off the leather bracer, and flicked back the cuff to reveal a brand, in the symbol of a lit matchstick.

"Our Knave – or should I say Jack? – of Hearts. This man kidnapped two young girls from the local comp school and has imprisoned them somewhere in the glass-walled wing. I had my suspicions as soon as he let slip that Sir Charles had been attacked by a hound despite not having found the body – after all, Barrymore never told them that he and Mortimer saw the footprints of the hound. Suspicions quickly rose when I found the missing tools in his laboratory."

"What about Dr. Stapleton and the paint?" John asked. "And what was your walking stick doing next to that giant fog machine?" He directed that bit at Dr. Mortimer, who looked shocked.

"I was looking for my stick. My poor cocker spaniel M.A.T.I.N. disappeared the night we arrived at Baskerville; I was getting worried."

Sherlock smirked. "I see. So Frankland needed parts to modify Fluffy to attack both Sir Charles and Sir Henry, ostensibly to sabotage the maintenance of the Legacy Project. He must have disassembled yours when it was carrying your walking-stick. I have a feeling, though, that Dr. Stapleton is also involved in this. Am I correct?" he directed the question at Frankland, who glowered at him.

"She never really cottoned on," he muttered sullenly. "Got her to fix Fluffy because she thought that helping Laura would bridge that gap between them, but that was it."

"What about Coombe Tracey?" John asked. "She found the same glowing paint that the children used to give Sherlock the message."

"No, she was showing Sir Henry the sights of Coombe Tracey," Dr. Mortimer cut in. "They were together all the time. She bought the paint for Bluebell; needed to figure out what would look best on it. The fact that she ended up painting the hounds was a response to Laura's complaint that they could never see the M.A.T.I.N.s at night."

Lestrade by this time was feeling rather overwhelmed. He looked from person to person, trying to figure out the full story.

"Lestrade, you just have to arrest Dr. Frankland. It's not that hard," Sherlock scoffed. He'd even produced a set of handcuffs and snapped them onto the Scientist's wrists.

"We need to recover the children, too," Lestrade pointed out, trying his best not to think of the missing Clerk back home. He wondered how MacDonald was coping.

They marched back to the Hall – Dr. Mortimer was helping Sir Henry; John found Laura Lyons and told her about Fluffy; Sherlock strode on towards the glass-walled wing with Frankland and Lestrade in tow. At the door, Sherlock gestured for John to come and let them in. Farther down the hall, Dr. Mortimer and Dr. Stapleton were helping Henry towards his room.

"She fancies him," Frankland muttered.

Sherlock harrumphed and pushed open the doors leading into the glass-walled wing. He marched straight for the book room, eyes scanning the tiles on the floor. After a moment, he stepped on one, twisting his feet to loosen it, to trigger a sliding mechanism. The wall suddenly slid out and started to rotate.

Lestrade and John quickly joined Sherlock and Frankland as the rotating wall took them into a hidden room with a trapdoor in the ground. John grabbed the ring, lifting it up with Lestrade's help. Steps unfolded before them, leading into the darkness.

"A loose tile in the book room. A secret passageway, leading into the vault." Sherlock stepped into the darkness, flashing John's torch into the shadows. "Finally, the truth."

They descended slowly into the darkness, listening to the drip-drip of damp as they got deeper and deeper. At the bottom, there was a lever. John pulled it back; suddenly a thousand lamps flickered into life, revealing a set of wrought-iron gates barring the way into a cavernous room.

Sherlock plucked a silver key from Frankland's belt pocket with a grin and unlocked them, swinging the gates open. They entered the caverns to see two little forms huddled over a tin plate in the corner, next to two immense, covered vats.

The little girls looked up, saw Sherlock, and screamed.


	37. Uncovering Truth

**Part XXXVI**

Sherlock sighed. "Obvious."

Lestrade frowned, eyes darting between Frankland and Sherlock and the girls. Sherlock groaned, nodding at John. John fumbled in his satchel and produced a soggy bundle. Lestrade's eyes widened as he realised it was a coat, a scarf, and a dark, curly wig.

"He dressed up as me," Sherlock explained. "These little girls were somewhat complicit in the plan, too. They knew a man named Jack was kidnapping them; otherwise they wouldn't have called him a clockwork knave. Clockwork for the fog machine, knave for jack. It all fits."

The girls backed away; John stepped forward attempting to placate them, trying to get them to come quietly. Lestrade walked over to the nearby desk and started filling out the arrest warrant. Sherlock scrutinised the vats carefully.

After a moment, Lestrade straightened up. "I hereby arrest you, Scientist Jack Frankland, for conspiring with the Anarchists to sabotage a government project and for kidnapping these two girls. Come along, all of you."

The two girls got up, still looking skittish towards Sherlock, and followed Lestrade and Frankland out of the cavernous room. Sherlock looked at John, gesturing for him to stay. They faced the vats.

"Perkins told us to find out for ourselves," Sherlock murmured. "I think now's the time."

John nodded, grabbing the edge of the covering over one of the vats. Sherlock seized the other.

In one fluid motion, they pulled.

The coverings fell back, revealing two giant glass vats full of some hardened amber-coloured substance. Sherlock quickly deduced it as honey. The vats were sealed to guard against moisture, high temperatures, and oxidation, and inside the vats there floated two figures.

Sherlock pressed his face to the glass, trying to see through the honey. Its translucency and the glare posed challenges, but there was no mistaking the fact that there was a body in the vat. Two bodies, two vats. Sherlock's eyes widened in shock and suspicion.

"Go through the files there," he breathed at John, pointing to the shelves nearby. John pulled out volumes and volumes of books and giant files full of papers.

"What's all this?" he asked, starting to rifle through the papers. "It's… there's damp all over these pages."

Sherlock flew over, grabbed one of the papers, and started to read. His face turned ashen, sickly, sallow. His breathing quickened; the paper dropped from his fingers. John reached for the paper, eyes flickering across the top.

"Sherlock, what…"

"I don't know." Sherlock was staring at the vat. "I don't…"

"It says that… that… _he_'s in there."

"And so is _he_."

"But he was cremated! My great-great-great-grandfather was cremated! The ashes are on our mantelpiece, for fuck's sake!"

"Faked," Sherlock replied quietly, blinking rapidly as he looked back at the honey-embalmed bodies. "That's why he raised bees. To get enough preservative, to start the project."

"The Legacy Project." John's voice had quieted as well. "But what does that say about us?"

For once, Sherlock seemed to be much too shocked to answer. He looked as if someone had pulled the world out from under his feet. John wanted to reach out, to enfold Sherlock in a hug and never let go. He wanted to tell his charge that it was all right, that it was a bad dream. But he was also looking at what was defying everything he'd ever been told. He shook his head, trying to wrap his brain around the ideas. The possible explanations.

"What is this?" Sherlock asked, and his voice seemed to be cracking, splintering into thousands of tiny fragments as tears started to roll out of his eyes. John had never seen him cry in earnest – he could fake tears for a case almost on demand, or summon crocodile tears to manipulate John into letting him have his way, but never had John ever seen Sherlock cry real, hot, rolling tears that streamed down his cheeks and dripped onto the stone floor. He looked even more lost than a wayward M.A.T.I.N. in the Great Grimpen Mire, and John acted on his instincts this time to nurture, to draw his charge into his arms and never let him go.

"Shh, Sherlock. Why don't we figure it out rationally?" he whispered.

"I… I can't be rational about this! My great-great-great grandfather's sitting there!" Sherlock jerked a thumb in the direction of the vats. "I… I don't want to… no… can't be…" he fell into incoherent sobbing, and it took all of John's efforts not to cry along with him.

"How do you think I feel?" he asked, kissing Sherlock's shoulder as Sherlock cried against his own. "I'm just as shocked as you are. My parents deliberately lied to me, told me those ashes were my ancestor's when he's sitting right here suspended in a vat full of honey. How do you think I feel?"

"It's not just that, John, it's the implications of what we are!" Sherlock pulled away, eyes wide and bloodshot. "The Legacy Project claims to store memories. We found out it stored genetic codes as well. What if… what if…"

Realisation dawned on John. "What if those memories are our memories, and what if those codes are the codes of these two men right here, preserved for all eternity?" It suddenly felt hard to breathe, hard to do anything other than stare at the closed eyes of the original John Watson. John felt dizzy, reeling.

"Are we even human?" Sherlock's voice cracked again, and John knew it was better not to crack a joke about Sherlock possibly being a droid because now was definitely not the time. So he held Sherlock close, patting his shoulder comfortingly.

There came the sudden thunder of steps down the stairs, and moments later a wild-eyed Dr. Mortimer came rushing in.

"The villain's escaped! Frankland's headed for the mire!"

* * *

><p>The remaining M.A.T.I.N.s and several clockwork droids were sent out to fetch Dr. Frankland, but they couldn't discover anything. Sherlock concluded shakily that he must have drowned in the mire. The girls were taken into custody, scheduled for questioning and therapy before they would be returned to their school. Their parents had been notified.<p>

Sherlock and John returned to their rooms, still reeling over the events of the night. They were too shaken to do anything more than kiss softly, gently, reassuring the other that no matter what their discoveries in the vault at Baskerville Hall indicated about them, they were in it together and they would be there for each other. Or at least, that was what John tried to communicate through his touches and kisses to a shaken Sherlock. Sherlock reciprocated in kind.

After a moment, the Consulting Detective got up and walked over to the desk where the laptop sat, opening it up and starting to type. Moments later, he slammed the lid shut and returned to John's side, expression solemn.

"John," he whispered, pressing their foreheads together. "Would you ever be scared to sleep in the same room as an insane idiot, with some mad ex-genius who's losing his mind?"

John frowned. "Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock, absolutely not."

"Good." Sherlock's voice was quiet. "I'd be lost without my Protector."

No more did they say that night; John tried his best to assuage Sherlock's fears through his caresses. They lay spooned, John wrapping his arms around Sherlock and trying to get the most out of being the big spoon to his lanky charge. He took comfort in Sherlock's solid warmth, in feeling a steady heartbeat pounding beneath his hands, strong and alive and _human_ – that made all the difference, didn't it? Sherlock wasn't a droid. He didn't have a clockwork, ticking heart and a brain only programmed to do certain acts. It may seem that way sometimes, but he truly wasn't. John felt like sometimes he was the only person in the world who knew. Chances are he probably was.

Once Sherlock's breathing evened into sleep, John relaxed slightly but still could not sleep. He pressed little kisses against Sherlock's shoulders, thinking. Sherlock had pointed out just last night that Moriarty was interested in the Legacy Project for some reason. Why else would he have the Bruce-Partington Memory Key stolen? He wanted access to someone's memories. Crucial memories, possibly. Not all of the memories of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson could be preserved on one key.

The fact that Moriarty had access to memories that he and Sherlock didn't sent a chill down the Protector's spine. Hoping for the best, John nervously closed his eyes and fell into a troubled sleep.

* * *

><p>"Lestrade," whispered Inspector MacDonald over the phone. Lestrade was staying overnight at Baskerville Hall, and he was currently sitting in the parlour across from Mycroft's Protector Assistant. The local police from Coombe Tracey had come and taken the girls with them.<p>

"Mm, what is it, Mac?" Lestrade asked, sighing.

"Toby called. He was crying."

"What did he say?"

"He was…" MacDonald's voice cracked. "He was trying to tell me where he was."

"What happened?" Lestrade whispered.

"He was cut off mid-sentence by a gunshot. I heard it. I heard it and then I heard the explosion, and now…"

"Oh." Lestrade's mouth fell open. He noticed Anthea watching him, and hastily closed it. "I'm sorry, mate."

"It was on the evening post. An explosion in an abandoned warehouse in Surrey. I could have prevented it, had I actually sent the information about his disappearance to the police over there, but –"

"Don't be too hard on yourself, Mac," Lestrade muttered. "He's in a better place."

"The blast killed twenty more people in the surrounding area, Greg." MacDonald's voice had hardened into sharpened steel. "We have to get to the bottom of this. We have to find the person responsible."

A thought suddenly struck Lestrade. "Mac," he whispered suddenly. "I think… I think Toby was meant to contact Sherlock."

A sudden intake of breath. "What do you mean?"

"Remember Sarah Sawyer? She had contacted Sherlock and he gave us the location. I have a feeling Toby had been kidnapped to do the very same – explains the explosive death – and when told that he was free, immediately contacted you instead of Sherlock. I hate to say this, but that was his mistake."

"But why Sherlock?"

"Sherlock was tipped off about the kidnapping of two young girls over here. It must be linked." Lestrade nodded. "The girls had been kidnapped by someone who was disguised as Sherlock."

"Why would anyone…?"

"I have no idea." Lestrade rolled his eyes. "How did Miss Sawyer describe her kidnapper again?"

Inspector MacDonald paused. "Tall, dark-haired. Wore a coat and a scarf," he rattled off.

Lestrade's blood ran cold. He should have seen the implications beforehand. "Oh cogs. That's why Sally was suspicious. Where is Sergeant Donovan?"

"I believe she left on a raid a couple of minutes ago," MacDonald replied. "She's with Clouseau and Anderson; they said they were going to Central London –"

"Call it off." Lestrade's voice was terse. "Call it off now, before Sherlock Holmes gets framed for a crime he didn't commit."


	38. Deduction and Deception

**Part XXXVII**

**ALLEGED JEWEL THIEF ACQUITTED IN LANDMARK CRIMINAL TRIAL**

In a shocking verdict, Maths Professor James 'Jim' Moriarty was acquitted yesterday of all charges. Tried for attempted robbery of the Tower of London on 18 August, and despite overwhelming evidence from the prosecution, Moriarty managed to get away scot-free.

The defence presented no witnesses and no evidence testifying to Moriarty's innocence. Perhaps the jury voted for clemency because of his spotless record, his character and exemplary methods of teaching, or his celebrated books on asteroids and the binomial theorem. The prosecution's evidence consisted of surveillance droid memory plates showing a man, unmistakably Moriarty, breaking the glass cases housing coronation regalia and lounging hedonistically on the throne as the police entered. Many members of the public are calling foul play or a miscarriage of justice. The jury was not available for comment.

However, Railway Stationmaster Seamus Moriarty, Jim Moriarty's younger brother, was available for comment. "Jim wouldn't do something like that," he says. "He's a good guy. He must have been framed."

Indeed, a shocking piece of evidence is apparent in the message that had been scrawled on the glass case in spray-paint right before Moriarty broke it – a chilling message reading "GET SHERLOCK". Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes had been holidaying with his Protector Assistant John Watson at the time of the break in and the trial, and was also unavailable for comment.

* * *

><p>"<em>How<em>?"

John slammed the paper down on the table. Across from him, Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Lestrade, next to John, cast a look at Anthea. She was dialling away, ignoring the world around her.

"How could he get away with…?" John removed the goggles perched on his head to rub frustratedly through his hair. Sherlock sighed.

"John, you weren't there. Don't jump to conclusions."

"_This is the link_!" John raised the newspaper, jabbing a finger at the small printed photograph of the damning surveillance droid image. "This is the link, Sherlock, Moriarty's definitely out to get you and he's doing it publicly, too." He paused, taking a deep breath. "Besides, you're the idiot who's been connecting every recent case to him."

"No amount of ranting or raving is going to get him caught, and catching him at this point is useless without solid evidence. Indestructible, undisputable proof that he is the spider at the centre of this criminal web. Until then, we can't accuse him of anything."

"How did he manage to weasel out of this trial despite the proof printed right here on the front cover of the _Clockwork Times_?" John demanded, pointing to the picture again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Elementary," he drawled. "He bought out the jury. It's either that or he blackmailed them – actually, come to think of it, blackmail's more likely."

Lestrade looked at John worryingly, as if hearing Sherlock discuss methods of tipping Justice's scales so cavalierly was cause for concern. John shrugged.

Sherlock spoke up again. "Do you have the airship tickets, John?"

"Two o'clock this afternoon." John nodded, nostrils still flared in anger. "Are you coming with us, Lestrade?"

At that moment, the Detective Inspector's phone rang. "Excuse me," he said, leaving the room briskly. Anthea looked up, smiling at John and Sherlock.

"You two seem to be coping well with your discovery," she noted calmly.

Sherlock froze, cup of coffee halfway to his lips. John shrugged.

"Might look that way, sure," he muttered.

"The truth's painful sometimes." Anthea set down her phone, tilting her head to the side. A beautiful sadness entered her eyes, partly for them and partly for herself. John knew she was thinking about her brother. Sherlock looked around uncomfortably, trying to appear extremely interested in the Baskervilles' portraits.

John reached over and took his fellow Protector's hand. "He thought of you constantly," he said bracingly. "Always talked about you, fussed over you, wished he was by your side. You were probably in his mind right before… before he died. He loved you a lot."

"I…" Anthea looked lost for words. "I…"

"I'm sorry I couldn't save him."

"I said it's fine. You were shot, too. It's not your fault."

"But I could have done more for him, I'm sure. Could have prevented the infection, or…"

"No, please. Don't blame yourself for Arthur's death." Her brown eyes were pleading. "John. It's fine."

John nodded, subsiding. After a moment, Anthea spoke up again.

"I… I shouldn't have fought with him the night before. Before he left. He went early in the morning so I couldn't tell him that I was sorry."

John said nothing, only silently encouraged her to go on with a nod. Anthea leaned against her chair, sighing.

"That night, one of the guests at the boarding house tried to… make an advance on me. He told me he would steal me, he'd take me away with him back to America. I fended him off, but Arthur barged in and… he was insane with rage. He could have murdered the man on the spot if I hadn't prevented it."

John nodded again. Sherlock raised both eyebrows, failing in his attempt not to look as if he was listening in.

"Arthur had him removed from the house, but…" she sighed. "But then we started arguing. I said I could fend for myself. He said he only wanted me to be safe, because my job was dangerous. He didn't want me to continue working for Mycroft; he said I'd only lose myself."

"How?"

"Anthea's not my real name, do you know that?"

John's eyebrows shot up. "Are Protectors supposed to get aliases?"

"Depends on who they protect," Anthea replied. "I've become Anthea so completely that… that my parents have been more or less obliged to call me that."

"Do you want to go back to using your real name?"

Anthea shrugged. "I just… I don't know. I wish I'd apologised to Arthur before he left. Wish I told him that his protectiveness means a lot to me."

John nodded. "I wish I'd gotten to know him better."

"I know he would have wished the same." Anthea looked over at her phone. "I'm just… telling you this because… because I want to make it clear that I don't blame you for what happened to my brother. My parents and I know you couldn't help it. But the press…"

"The press!" John frowned. "What're they saying?"

Anthea tapped her phone. "There is an investigative reporter for the _Clockwork Times_ who is looking for the rust on you and Sherlock. She tried to interview Mycroft yesterday. Needless to say, he rebuffed her. However –"

At that moment, Lestrade re-entered the room, expression grave.

"Sherlock, we need to talk."

* * *

><p>"Hello? Is this the… is this the office of Kitty Reilly?" A young dark-haired man peered nervously from around the door, grinning bashfully. He wore a newsboy cap, a short-sleeved white shirt, dark brown braces, and muddy brown breeches. His engineer's boots were splattered with mud and dust as if he'd been running. "I need to speak to Miss Kitty Reilly."<p>

"This is her," the young red-haired woman replied from behind a giant stack of newsprint. She stood up, smiling at him. "What can I do for you?"

"I need to be protected. It's urgent. He might find me; he's after me; he might kill me if this gets out!"

At that, Kitty's eyes lit up. A concerned expression slid across her features; she walked over and guided the man into a chair. He looked her up and down, taking in the printing ink splattered on her fingers, the puff-sleeved blouse and black ruffled skirt over fishnet stockings and a leather corset. After a moment, he opened his mouth to speak again, but all that came out were pleas for help and refuge.

"I can help you, I can," soothed Kitty, excitement filling her as she patted his shoulders comfortingly. "You won't be attacked; you're perfectly safe. Now tell me who you are and why you're asking for my help."

"I need the truth to be told. My friends and I need the truth to be told." Behind him, the door opened and in came two other young men who looked very similar to the first. Kitty could almost swear they were brothers save for the hair colours. One of them wore a leather eye patch with a brass-plated clockwork design on it. The other sported a moustache.

"All right, introduce yourselves, then." Kitty smiled at them kindly, already scribbling away at her reporter's notebook.

"This is Steven Ratigan," the sitting man said, pointing to the man with the moustache. "And that's Mark Fidget. I'm Richard Brook, and we're here to tell you the truth about Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

><p>Peace descended on Baskerville Hall even as Sherlock and John packed to return to London. Anthea and Lestrade, as it turned out, were returning on the same airship – the A.S.<em> Airdot<em> – as them. John couldn't help but notice that Sherlock and Lestrade seemed determined not to look at each other.

Fluffy had been fixed under Laura Lyons's excellent care, and the Mechanic and Dr. Stapleton seemed to have patched up their differences. Bluebell, Stapleton's mechanical rabbit, was riding on Fluffy's back when the M.A.T.I.N. clanked over to bid them farewell. It rumbled a purely canine form of thanks as John patted it apologetically.

"Any news of the girls?" he asked Eliza Barrymore as she and her husband directed the droids loading their luggage onto the steamcart.

"They're at Birlstone again; don't worry." Eliza smiled, turning to Sherlock. "Thank you so much for helping us, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock nodded tersely. He, John, Lestrade, and Anthea piled into the cart behind Dr. Mortimer, Dr. Stapleton, and Sir Henry. The latter two seemed to be discreetly trying to hold hands. Sherlock rolled his eyes and mouthed 'they couldn't be more obvious' to John, who had to disguise his giggles with a bout of violent coughing.

Sir Henry and Dr. Stapleton saw them off at the air-docks. Pretty soon, the zeppelin was soaring through turrets of puffy white clouds, the bleak beauty of Devon lying far below them.

"All right, cough it up," John said to Sherlock. The Consulting Detective was looking out the window, watching planes zoom by. In the distance the blue band of the ocean stretched out to the horizon.

"I'm fine," Sherlock frowned.

"No, tell me why you and Lestrade are avoiding each other's gaze. There's something going on."

Sherlock shook his head. John sighed, looking across the aisle at Lestrade seated in a booth with Anthea. The two were talking, expressions grave. John got up and walked over to them.

"What's going on?"

Lestrade and Anthea looked at him with almost matching deer-in-the-headlights expressions.

"What do you mean?" Lestrade asked after a moment.

"Sherlock's keeping me in the dark about something that you obviously informed him about, since you two haven't spoken or even looked at each other since that phone call this morning."

"Wow, he's rubbing off on you," Lestrade sighed, gesturing for John to take a seat.

John looked over at Anthea, who shrugged and returned to her dialling.

"There was a raid at Baker Street last night," Lestrade started, and John steeled himself for the worst.

"So?"

"They discovered some personal belongings of two kidnap victims in your flat. Specifically in Sherlock's room."

"And?"

"They were Dr. Sarah Sawyer's medical kit and Clerk Tobias Jones's notebook."

"Planted," John said shortly. "He hasn't been in that flat since the day after the Moran incident. I'm sure if they bothered measuring the levels of dust in the flat – Mrs. Hudson only cleans once a month since she isn't our housekeeper, and she always cleans on the first weekend of the month so she couldn't have done anything to our flat – they would have noticed that we haven't occupied it in weeks and therefore any disruptions in the dust levels were from people who didn't belong in the flat."

"You really _have_ spent too much time around Sherlock."

"Dust is eloquent," John muttered.

Lestrade sighed. "The point is, I believe you about the planting. It's obvious, really. But the people who conducted the raid have every reason to hold a grudge against Sherlock."

"Donovan, Anderson, Clouseau," John listed. "First three who come to mind, at any rate."

"Exactly. And they've taken the liberty of using the Chief Superintendent to compel me to arrest Sherlock under suspicion of kidnapping Ms. Sawyer and Mr. Jones, and murdering the latter."

"_What_!"

"I have to arrest him once we dock in London, or face corruption charges and a possible Deassignment."

John frowned, getting an irresistible urge to find the Chief Superintendent and deck him in the face. He sighed, breathed deeply, and asked, "What about me, then?"

"You're accused of being his accomplice."

"Lovely." John sighed, rolling his eyes. "I assume Sherlock has something up his sleeve, though."

Lestrade snorted. "It's Sherlock. What did you expect?"

* * *

><p>The A.S. <em>Airdot<em> docked in London on schedule. The docks were swarming with police officers, the lights on their automobiles flashing and the whistle-sirens blowing madly. John could hear them from the gondola of the airship. He and Sherlock collected their things and left them with Anthea, who had contacted Mycroft about the entire ordeal. Mycroft was going to take care of their belongings, despite Sherlock's protests and mistrust.

"Lestrade!" The Chief Superintendent was on them in a flash the instant they disembarked – he was absolutely, disgustingly obese with a blotchy purple face and thick spectacles, with a red-stripe waistcoat and an ugly beige blazer over beige trousers and shiny black boots with brass accents. "Lestrade, do you have the warrants?"

"Yes," groaned Lestrade, his expression anything but enthusiastic. He turned to Sherlock and John with a sigh. "Sorry boys," he muttered before adding in a louder, more monotonous drone, "Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes and Protector Assistant John Watson, I hereby arrest you for suspected collaboration in the kidnapping of Dr. Sarah Sawyer and Clerk Tobias Jones and the murder of the latter. Keep in mind that anything you say might and probably will be used against you in a court of law –"

A loud screech filled the air. Sherlock had reached out with the hand that hadn't been cuffed to John's by this point and twisted the dial of the nearby radio system. Several police clutched their radio headsets in pain, doubling over.

"Can I get your hands in the air please, hands in the air!" Sherlock shouted, drawing the pistol he had hid in his coat and pointing it at the police. Backing away with John, he raised it in the air and fired off a warning shot.

"Stand down!" Lestrade barked at the nearby police officers; everyone put their hands in the air. The Chief Superintendent made to move, but Lestrade stopped him with a hand. "I can handle this!" He quickly winked at Sherlock, who nodded imperceptibly.

"Good, very good." The Consulting Detective continued to back away. "Allow me to say that this has all been a sore misunderstanding and that if the officers who had 'found' the 'evidence' had been_ competent _enough to _observe_ the flat they would have easily deduced that I had not lived in it for at least two weeks. But then again,_ some _of us are so desperate to have me arrested for something just to take me down a few pegs." He sent a withering glare at Sally Donovan, who was standing next to Anderson looking entirely nonplussed.

"This is all his idea, by the way," John added as they moved down the airdock, towards the nearest escape alley and away from the crowd. "I'm just here as his…"

"My _hostage_!" Sherlock insisted, pointing the pistol at John's head. John hoped that his faith that Sherlock would not pull the trigger would be enough.

"Yes, hostage. Hostage works." John took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, shakily. "What are we doing now?"

"They will give chase as soon as we run. Take my hand." Sherlock looked at him, smiling sadly. "They'll set M.A.T.I.N.s after us, and we must confuse the trail for them as much as possible."

"All right." John nodded, taking Sherlock's hand and squeezing it reassuringly.

Hand-in-hand, they turned tail and fled from the airdock.


	39. Remembering

**Part XXXVIII**

Feet pounding against the pavement, fingers tightly entwined, palms clammy with sweat, Sherlock and John raced through the alleyways and back streets with the sun pounding on them. They barely stopped for breath as they leapt from rooftop to rooftop, over fences and walls. After the first they'd learnt to coordinate, working together to clear subsequent obstacles. All around them the police whistles blew and M.A.T.I.N.s barked.

"They're gaining," John gasped.

"Cross paths. Avoid grass and shade," Sherlock replied, turning sharply and dragging John along behind him. John hollered something about calming down and not making the cuffs chafe so awfully, but it was largely lost in the din.

They arrived at Pall Mall, mid-afternoon. Empty carriages stood in the streets, mechanical horses temporarily turned off. The police were nowhere in sight.

"Aha," Sherlock breathed, drawing a key from his coat pocket – he'd replaced the pistol in there as well – and rushing up to one of the doors. He unlocked it quickly and slipped in, holding a finger to his lips to John.

"Where are we?" John whispered as Sherlock closed the door behind them.

"Mycroft's apartment." The barking of the M.A.T.I.N.s grew louder and louder behind them.

* * *

><p>By the time the evening papers came in, by the time the lamp-lighting droids zoomed out into the gathering twilight, Kitty Reilly had furnished her small flat to accommodate the three Actors. Or at least, that's what they said they were.<p>

The identification cards seemed real enough. Kitty had quickly ingratiated herself as she interviewed them, gathering information about their situation. She was barely able to get her story in for the morning papers.

Soon, all would be revealed. Kitty had been astonished at the news. She hadn't thought Sherlock Holmes capable of such a deed.

But it seems as if evidence was piling up against him – the news that Sherlock Holmes had evaded arrest this afternoon permeated every corner of London, and heads popped up to whisper about the implications. What was he being arrested for? Why?

* * *

><p>Mycroft put his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes wearily. Across from him, Anthea fetched a cake from a passing droid and placed it on Mycroft's desk.<p>

"Thank you," Mycroft sighed.

"They're in your flat," Anthea reported. "Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. They've been hiding there all afternoon."

"I hope they didn't mess anything up," Mycroft replied drily, stabbing into the cake venomously. "Lestrade has some explaining to do."

"He said it was a matter of blackmail," replied Anthea, expression serene. "They threatened him with a Deassignment if he failed to arrest Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson, despite the evidence that the two of them had been framed for the crime that they were arresting them for."

"Personal vendetta against Sherlock, I see." Mycroft sighed heavily. "He does tend to do that, doesn't he? Cultivate a legion of enemies?"

Anthea said nothing, only looked back at her phone. She received another textogram and read it quietly, brows furrowing. "The Legacy Project is safe, though," she said after a moment.

"A Key is in the hands of a criminal mastermind."

"But nothing else was upset." Anthea paused. "They know, sir."

"I'd suspected as much." Mycroft chewed his cake thoughtfully. "It was inevitable, sending them to Baskerville and all."

"They didn't discover everything, though. The memories haven't been recovered."

"No time like the present." Mycroft smiled, got up, and fetched his umbrella. "I'm calling it a day. Will you stay over at Pall Mall tonight, or will you return home?"

"I can stay," Anthea replied coolly. "You may need support."

That was what Mycroft loved about Anthea. She was reliable, calm, intelligent. The perfect Protector Assistant. She sacrificed so much of her life for him, hid away so much of her true emotions and thoughts. He knew her real name, but he hadn't called her that in such a long time that he was almost on the verge of forgetting it.

The two of them headed back to Mycroft's Pall Mall apartments. Anthea was arranging meetings, checking on various Delegates and Politicians. Mycroft strode ahead, umbrella tapping against the pavement thoughtfully.

"France," he said suddenly. Anthea looked up, eyebrows raised.

"I'm in the process of renegotiating treaty-signing locations," she replied.

Mycroft nodded, slowing down to let her catch up with him. France had originally agreed to host the treaty negotiations in October at Versailles, but recently various military scandals had come to light and a certain Captain was set to be retried for espionage. French society was split between those who believed him guilty and those who didn't, and to Mycroft it was blatantly obvious that the poor Captain had been framed.

And speaking of framing, the evening papers were stacked on his front porch with a picture of Sherlock splattered above the fold; he retrieved them with a sigh and unlocked the door, holding it open for her.

"The scandals they're going through," he sighed, clucking his tongue. "Absolutely unacceptable."

"You didn't see it coming?"

Mycroft sniffed, in a way that clearly said that he had seen it coming; he just chose to ignore it. Anthea nodded, walking down the hallway towards the drawing room to announce Mycroft's arrival.

"Brother dear!" Sherlock's voice wafted through the door even before Anthea got there. Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I'd certainly hate to impinge on your… hospitality… but it seems that I'm on the run from the law and I need a place to stay."

"I see," Mycroft replied simply as he entered the drawing room.

"I hope you have something more substantial than cake for food?" Sherlock demanded.

"Obviously," sniffed Mycroft. "But it's not why you're here." He raised an eyebrow, as if in a challenge. Sherlock read his expression and nodded.

"No, not entirely."

"You certainly have other people who owe you favours, and lying low at their place could work just as well."

"Not everyone."

"No, definitely not everyone. But there are some."

"How's Lestrade?"

"You saw him last; you tell me."

Sherlock sighed, seemingly conceding the point. Mycroft watched him twiddle with the spare key. After a moment, he sighed as well, nodding at Anthea.

"The two of you will need to clean my desk after what you've done on it," he remarked as she left the room. John flushed bright red, but Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Droids can take care of that," he replied. "She's gone to fetch it?"

"Naturally. It's time the two of you returned."

Sherlock's Glasz eyes scanned him again in an attempt to figure out exactly why he'd said that. Mycroft listened to Anthea's footsteps, not betraying anything himself until she re-entered the drawing room. Then his shoulders slumped, he smiled sadly at Sherlock, and he took the silver Memory Key from his Protector Assistant and gave it to Sherlock.

"How much of the Legacy Project did you uncover at Baskerville?" he asked as Sherlock turned the key over and over in his hands, not looking at him. Mycroft's gaze flickered over to John, who was watching Sherlock with concern in his eyes.

"That it has something to do with genetics, the preserved remains of our namesakes, and memories," John replied as Sherlock stared at the ground. "He's still having trouble adjusting."

Mycroft laughed bitterly. "You are always trying to look strong, John. The bravery of the Soldier…" he paused. "By far the kindest word for stupidity, but I find that irrelevant to what we're discussing. Take out your laptop, Dr. Watson."

John obliged, quirking an eyebrow as Mycroft handed it to Sherlock and gestured for him to turn it on and insert the key. "What are you going to do?"

"You'll see." Mycroft got up to pour himself a glass of brandy, nodding again at Anthea. She left the room dialling away at her phone. "Allow me to explain the Project."

"Cloning experiments," Sherlock said immediately. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, exactly."

"What?" demanded John.

"Cloning experiments," repeated Mycroft. "You and Sherlock are clones of your namesakes, created for a very special purpose. What do you think that is?"

"To undermine the criminal web of Professor James Moriarty," Sherlock answered. "But that doesn't explain why the memories have to be repressed –"

"Everything had its course," replied Mycroft, running a finger along the rim of his brandy glass. "Everything was set to repeat itself – the two of you would meet in middle age, establish the Protectorship, recover your memories right when Moriarty becomes active, and nip it all in the bud. Simple. The problem was, one little cog went loose and the entire clock stopped working."

"How?" John asked.

"Moriarty retrieved the Memory Key earlier than expected."

Sherlock nodded. "You mean to say that he 'became active' earlier than expected. Went into the field earlier, which warranted… oh, you didn't. You absolutely didn't."

"No, it was also partly his fault."

"A war, just to capture him?"

"I'm almost certain he's got something to do with the Corsairs being able to hold their own against us. Can't find proof just yet. That's where you come in."

"I'm not your sniffer dog," sneered Sherlock.

"I have M.A.T.I.N.s for that," agreed Mycroft. "But that brings us back to why you're here. Clockwork droids can't do this sort of thing, you see. I've always had my misgivings about them. Give them too much of ourselves, give them too much humanity, and they will rebel."

"And we're not any better?" John snapped, causing Mycroft to look at him sharply. "You had us cloned from the preserved remains of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and you gave us their abilities and personalities but not their memories –"

"I have given you your memories," Mycroft pointed out, gesturing to the laptop now sitting forgotten on Sherlock's lap.

"This is all largesse for you, though. That's my point." John glared at Mycroft.

"I give you the tools," Mycroft replied calmly. "It's still your decision what to do with them. I've already partly caused a war and arranged your Assignments so that you would go through your namesake's experiences before meeting Sherlock, and I've had to do it years ahead of schedule. But Moriarty's fate still rests in your hands. In the end, I'm not the one who will bring down his organisation. You two will be. It's in your blood, in your very being. The game calls to you, Dr. Watson. The Great Game, with its dangerous siren call."

He paused, eyes flickering to Sherlock's and back to John's.

"When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. No doubt you've already seen it. You always have the option of requesting a Reassignment, but the question is, would you?"

John's brows knit together in thought. "No," he admitted after a moment. "I wouldn't abandon Sherlock."

"Good. Go on, then. It's time you remembered."

* * *

><p>John watched Sherlock pull up the files. His heart beat quickly, almost erratically. His hands clenched and unclenched, palms clammy with sweat. Regaining lost memories was a lot more nerve-wracking than he'd originally anticipated, it seemed.<p>

"Being a reprint from the reminisces of John H. Watson, M.D…" Sherlock's voice fell quiet as he started to read the files. "These are your namesake's accounts of our times together."

"There's more," Mycroft pointed out. "There are previous case files, lab notebooks. Practically everything, and definitely enough to trigger memory recall." His eyes were weary, John noticed as he turned to look at Mycroft. Weary with the weight of an entire world, weary with knowledge. He felt his antipathy towards Mycroft ebb a little – even if the man was a manipulative bastard, he often did it for some greater good.

"Shut up," Sherlock muttered as he continued to read. "I need to go to my mind palace."

"I'll leave you two to it." With a distinctively awkward air about him, the Archagent left. John returned his attentions to the screen, and as he continued to read, the images inside his head – images that had teased at the border of his subconscious for years – began to resurface, crystal clear.

He remembered, now. He remembered everything.


	40. Discovery at the Dragon Den

**Part XXXIX**

_The little blond boy ran across the field, blue eyes sparkling with laughter. Summer was drawing to its end, a golden twilight descending on the field as the mechanical fireflies zoomed out and fluttered around him. He tried catching them, but they flew away from his hands every time he grabbed for them._

"_John! Time to come in!" His mother stood at the door to their summer cottage, her face lined from years of work and worry at the Factories, her hands stained with memories of coal-dust and grime – but she was smiling, her hands were currently coated in flour, and she was holding a freshly-baked tart for John._

_It was hours later, when he was tucked up in bed looking out at the stars, that his thoughts started to stray. He could have sworn that he was thinking of the future – but the definiteness of it scared him. It seemed that he couldn't think of anything else other than being a Doctor of some sort and then a Protector. _

_But the images were fuzzy – only of him meeting a dark-haired man with blurry features in a hospital, of them moving into a blurry flat, of them working together on cases, examining evidence, occasionally breaking into houses. He could feel the emotions associated – excitement, joy, an occasional burst of fear when his mysterious companion had been hurt. Happiness, love, friendship – in some way, this man was his friend and one of the few people he would ever truly love beyond even his own self-preservation._

_And the sadness, too, there was sadness. The boy hated dreaming the sad dreams, of standing at the edge of a blurry waterfall, trying to read a blurry note. All he could tell was that his friend was dead, that his friend wasn't coming back. He always woke from those with tears on his pillow and an indescribable lump in his throat._

_He'd always pondered what these dreams meant, but as he grew up he thought less and less of them. Soon they were only childhood fancies, vague sensations of 'this is what your future could look like'. John never resisted the pull; he only pondered._

_And now he knew._

* * *

><p>"The Reichenbach," Sherlock murmured, dragging John back into the present. "It ends at the Reichenbach."<p>

"What?" John asks.

"Moriarty. I… I seem to survive, but you don't know that and you're forced to believe for three years that…"

"That you're dead," John mumbles, feeling a prickle of moisture in his eyes.

"But we did things out of order. We apprehended Moran before…" Sherlock's brows furrowed. "What could that signify about the Reichenbach?"

"We're not going there."

Sherlock looked up sharply, staring at John with a quizzical expression. "Why not?" he asked.

"We're not going to the Reichenbach; that's all. I don't want you falling."

"We'll take care."

"So will Moriarty. He knows, I bet."

Sherlock sighed, slumping in his chair. "Fine," he said after a moment. "We'll avoid the Reichenbach."

Something in his voice told John that he was going to disregard that at the first available opportunity. He didn't comment on that.

* * *

><p>Summer died into autumn. Kitty Reilly was set to publish her exposé mid-September; her promising scoop kept the nation waiting on the edge of its seat.<p>

Mycroft had smoothed over ruffled feathers at the Met and allowed Sherlock to return to Baker Street, but in the eyes of the Chief Superintendent he was still guilty and therefore needed tailing at all possible hours. Sherlock and John always managed to shake off the extra surveillance droids – they were already over-observed by Mycroft's droids; they didn't need the Met watching their every move as well.

It was now at the very end of August. John was set to visit Mary, who had just come back from her extended holiday in Brighton and seemed bursting to tell him good news if her letters were of any indication. Sherlock immediately deduced that she had met a wonderful man and was madly in love with him. John thought he was grasping at straws, but he agreed to visit Mary to find out the veracity of Sherlock's deductions.

"I'll have you back in time for dinner?" Sherlock asked that morning, as he bid John goodbye at the door to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson, in a clear defiance of her 'not your housekeeper' position, had packed John's satchel with nibbles for the trip and a bottle of absinthe for Mary. She was now making herself a strong cup of tea, possibly intending on taking her herbal soothers with that.

"Hopefully," John replied. "Angelo's at twenty hours?"

"Naturally." Sherlock kissed him goodbye. "See you then."

"Don't blow up the flat."

Sherlock watched his Protector Assistant disappear down the street, a tiny smile on his face. He ascended the seventeen steps up to their flat and took a seat in his usual chair, trying to calm his mind as boredom started to descend.

As if on cue, the brass laptop dinged.

Sherlock sat bolt upright, scrambling for the laptop. There was a message waiting for him; it read:

_Are you sure Connie Prince died of tetanus?  
>M xoxo<em>

"Obviously not," Sherlock snapped at the laptop as he typed. "It's been months since I looked at her; she's definitely not in the right state for a re-examination. But the wound that she supposedly died of had been made after death."

Moments later, another message appeared.

_Good, good. Keep going. Can't have you slipping back into your old habits, now can we?  
>M xoxo<em>

Sherlock glowered at the screen, almost intending to tell Moriarty off for meddling with his history. Whose business was it, whether or not he did cocaine or opium or –

Opium! Sherlock frowned, trying to sort through his mind palace for the name of the proprietor of the opium den he himself had frequented before he met John.

Prince, that was it. Brother and sister, both of whom had spent time overseas and returned with connections to the opium trade in China. That much he had deduced on his first visit, and he recalled all of it with a smirk.

Well then, it must be time to return to the den. Sherlock donned his curly-haired ginger disguise and set out for the East End.

* * *

><p>He remembered the Dragon Den. It had a trap door in the back, near the corner of the nearby wharf. That trap door led to a tunnel that had seen the disposal of bodies and the smuggling of goods – in fact, he and John had cornered the Black Lotus smugglers from the Blind Merchant case in that very tunnel. Sherlock wondered how he didn't see it at first. Of course each component of the web was linked in some way that would befuddle anyone who hadn't dedicated their time to studying Professor Moriarty's network.<p>

Sherlock arrived at the boarding house that hosted the Dragon Den. The boarding house he clearly remembered as belonging to the Princes – it did say Prince and Co. Boarding House on the bronze sign fixed above the door. He entered, noting the long, dark hallway that led to the Dragon Den and rang for the Innkeeper.

Kenneth Prince was the sole Innkeeper of the establishment, now that his sister was dead. He was still dressed sombrely, albeit Sherlock could see faint hints of colour in his cravat, pocket-square, watch. The man surveyed him, smiling.

"What can I do for you, Mr…?"

"Cumberbatch," Sherlock replied quickly, flashing a fake identification card. "Reporter for the _Clockwork Times_. I needed to ask you some questions."

"If it's about the Dragon Den you'll have to take it to Mr. Yao, the overseer," Mr. Prince said immediately.

"I can talk to both," Sherlock replied, smiling. "This is about your sister Connie."

Mr. Yao came walking in at that moment. He was young, with the faintest hints of stubble about his face. His long black hair was tied back, and his fingers were stained with opium. Sherlock scrutinised him, noticing his athletic build and – aside from the fingers – polished appearance.

He also noticed how the two men seemed to gravitate towards each other; as they led him to a parlour, Mr. Prince's hands brushed against Mr. Yao's elbows for a moment. The Chinese man's eyes closed briefly, before snapping open, brown eyes alert.

"I hope it's not too soon?" Sherlock asked calmly. "After all, both of you have lost sisters."

The two of them looked at him sharply. Sherlock smiled in a show of false sadness. "Soo Lin and Connie. It was in the papers; surely you remember?"

"A black cloud of grief," replied Mr. Yao, adjusting the sleeves of his changshan. It was a rich crimson silk with golden accents, cut far shorter than the traditional length and with small slits up the side. He also wore beige breeches tucked into tall, laced-up boots.

"We have been each others' rocks through these troubled times," agreed Mr. Prince.

"But is it too soon for me to ask you questions about them?"

The men looked at each other. "No, it's been a while." Mr. Yao leaned back in his chair with cool poise. "Fire away."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "All right, then."

* * *

><p>Mary was bright-eyed and at the most beautiful John had seen her in ages; she fairly radiated when he met her on her doorstep with kisses to both cheeks and insisted they take a walk in the nearby park.<p>

The afternoon was golden; sunlight gleamed off the mechanical fowl in the park and the tall buildings surrounding the quiet patch of man-made nature. The lake rippled in the breeze, its fountain playing brightly. Mary caught a falling leaf, the first of many to come.

"So, tell me the news," John said as they entered a brass pavilion that hovered slightly above the lake. To the side young children played on a merry-go-round in the shape of a gear, and a band of clockwork droids played a cheery melody. Mary folded her parasol, smiling.

"I met a man in Brighton," she said, eyes sparkling with happiness. "He's a Delegate to Japan. We met at one of Uncle Thaddeus's house parties, and we've been very close since."

"What's his name?"

"Delegate Percy Fraser."

John smiled. "Percy! I knew him as a child. Bourgeoisie, with high-class family connections. We went to the same comp school, where he was two years ahead of me."

Mary, whose uncles had managed to obtain her a private education on the Isle of Wight for all of the years excluding sixth form (she and John had always met and played together over the holidays), smiled excitedly.

"Really? Why, it must be a small world! What was he like as a child?"

"We whacked him about the shins with wickets on the playground." At that, Mary smacked him lightly about the arm, but her eyes were still amused. "We also called him Tadpole. He was decent at rugby, but not good enough for the team – in fact, he was much better suited to swimming and fencing. And he'd always wanted to be a Delegate."

"Yes, he managed to move up very quickly at the Foreign Office because of his upper-class uncle, Lord Holdhurst," agreed Mary. "Charming fellow. Insisted I call him Uncle Norton."

John grinned. "Already expecting you to join the family?"

"Well, I'd love to." Mary looked at him wistfully, and John wondered for a moment if she, too, knew about his past. He'd married a woman named Mary in the past; was she thinking of what could have been?

But the moment went by, and soon Mary was all smiles and sunshine, full to the brim with the joy of newfound love.

* * *

><p>"Connie was very headstrong," Kenneth Prince reminisced with a sad smile. "She and I didn't get along very often, but she was the Innkeeper at first. I'd only asked for a Reassignment after her death; we had to keep the place going."<p>

"Was she responsible for the Dragon Den? I was under the impression that she was the proprietor," Sherlock noted.

"Only in name," Mr. Yao cut in. "I run the den."

"Yes, Connie only owned the den in name – and besides, she was more well-known for the boarding house. People loved her; they were always dropping by, renting out rooms in order to chat with her and receive beauty tips. I'd always thought there'd been a Misassignment, that she should have become a Beautician. But she was happy, running her boarding house."

"Mm." Sherlock took note of that. "What sort of tips did she give?"

"The usual – what colours to wear, how to style hair, how to use various products…" Mr. Prince sighed. "She may have insisted on her boarding house clients staying away from the opium den, but she herself used it frequently. In our last argument I brought that up… said she was a hypocrite… she told me that I was ugly and stupid and…" his voice choked slightly. "Sorry, I can't think about it too much. It's still…" he trailed off. "I want to remember her as a wonderful person."

"We all do, in death," Sherlock replied calmly, watching Mr. Yao sneak his hand into Mr. Prince's and entwine their fingers, squeezing reassuringly. "Have you kept her things?"

"Naturally." Mr. Prince nodded. "Do you need to see them?"

"Yes, for the article – I'd like a full picture on the manner of her death, straight from the horse's mouth."

"We'd have to take you to where she was injured, then," Mr. Yao replied.

"I think her personal effects will be a bit more helpful," Sherlock insisted.

"If you say so, Reporter Cumberbatch," sighed Mr. Prince. "Come along, then."

Connie's bedroom seemed to have been very well-preserved, save for the door. It had been pasted full of pictures and articles of the dead woman, with several heartbroken fans leaving flowers and messages nearby. A small memorial.

Sherlock entered, donned a pair of gloves, and shooed the two men away as he began looking through Connie's papers. He quickly discovered that she was devoutly religious and had pleaded to the Watchmaker on numerous occasions regarding her addiction and her brother's lifestyle. He also noted the beginnings of her opium den and the numerous fights she and her brother had shared over the management of the den. The picture came together quickly once he found the papers.

"…Kenny's been seeing Hang more and more frequently," Sherlock read quietly. "I worry about his soul. Watchmaker, you must help me… I am weak; I need my dope. I am nothing without it… Kenny agreed to bring Hang and his sister Soo Lin with us back to London. I have my misgivings, but if I don't take them with me I won't have my hop and he won't have his lover. We'd be most disagreeable… How could I have succumbed to two weaknesses? I detest Kenny sometimes; he tells me what I truly am. A hypocrite. I rely on two drugs and I allow him to carry on with Hang. It's detestable. I don't understand how his sister can bear it."

He looked at the paper and smirked. "Well, well, well…"

* * *

><p>Lestrade arrived at the boarding house in the late afternoon, meeting Sherlock at the door. "What is it now?" the Detective Inspector demanded. "You know you're still under suspicion at the Yard."<p>

"I've caught you the man responsible for Connie Prince's death," replied Sherlock smoothly. "When you go in, head straight for the den and apprehend Mr. Hang Yao, the overseer."

"What for?" Lestrade asked. "What proof?"

"Connie's papers. Mr. Yao and her brother Kenneth were involved in a relationship. She was against it, but allowed it because the Yaos provided her with the drugs necessary to maintain both her addiction and her den. But she continued to disapprove of the affair, so Yao had her dispatched."

"And how did he do that?"

"Connie refers to 'dope' and 'hop' in her papers, which are slang for opium as well as heroin, since heroin is derived from opium. She was addicted to both, and while both are very toxic in large amounts, she only died from one of them – the heroin." He handed Lestrade a case in which a hypodermic needle rested. "Have this tested. The type of heroin that she last used was black tar, and I believe she contracted _Clostridium botulinum_ from it. Mr. Yao must have smuggled it in from Latin America and administered it to her; he does run the drugs business in the house with his late smuggler sister."

Lestrade nodded, taking the case and dialling for reinforcements as he filled out the arrest warrant for Mr. Yao. Sherlock pulled out the brass laptop from the Gladstone bag he had carried as part of his disguise, and typed in his discoveries. Moments later, a chilling message appeared.

_Rec Centre, the one where it all began. Go there now; can't have you miss your dinner date with your pet, can we?  
>M xoxo<em>


	41. The Great Game

**Part XL**

The Rec Centre sported an indoor pool, encased in glass. The paint outside and in the lockers were chipping; the tiles were cracking; mould and mildew ran amok. The pool itself had been automatically running for years, yet the machines running it were growing old. The water was green with algae; faint traces of chlorine stained the sides.

Sherlock entered the pool room, where it had all started. Where Moriarty had killed Carla Powers all these years ago. He looked around him, trying to quell the nervousness bubbling in his stomach like a sickly stew.

"Well?" he called out to the glass room, watching the rosy hues of sunset ripple outside. Flickering shadows of dirigibles, Floating Steamers, hot-air balloons, and airplanes flew by. "You called me here, and here I am."

He fingered the pistol in the pocket of his coat, waiting.

"Evening," a familiar voice cut through the tense silence. Sherlock looked over in the direction of the lockers. His heart froze.

"John," he breathed, striding towards the locker room. "What the hell –"

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" John's voice echoed off the tiles, mechanical and monotonous. "Bet you never saw this coming."

Sherlock strode into the locker room and stopped short, eyes wide.

"What," continued John Watson as he stared coolly from the ticking clockwork chair he was strapped to, "would you like to make me make him say next?"

The world was falling from under Sherlock's feet as he watched the clockwork mechanisms on the chair. Quickly he deduced that the gears were turning slowly in a direction that would bring together parts of a switch, which would conduct a signal along the wires snaking down the chair, towards the sticks of dynamite tucked beneath the seat. From the number of gears left before the switch came together, he reckoned he had only an hour. His breath came in short, panicked bursts; he started striding across the locker room, towards John.

"I wouldn't do that so quickly if I were you, Sherlock!" a teasing voice called. Through the doors on the other side of the locker room came a familiar-looking man in a dark suit. His dark eyes glinted with malice; he cocked his head to the side and looked at Sherlock much like a viper would look at its next prey.

"Professor Jim Moriarty," Sherlock drawled. "Jim, the Teacher, ex-beau of Molly Hooper. Professor Moriarty, the renowned and twice-published Maths Professor. Jim Moriarty, the criminal mastermind."

"A spider at the centre of a web with a thousand rays," agreed the other. "But you forgot one more person. Richard Brook, Actor."

Sherlock tried to remember.

"In the papers, darling. The source Kitty Reilly is using to write her exposé on you." Moriarty smirked. "And is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"

"Both," Sherlock replied, drawing the pistol and inching towards John. Moriarty laughed.

"Don't move any closer. I've got a sniper trained on you. You do remember him, don't you? Crack shot with an air-gun. Can't risk that."

Sherlock looked over at John, who nodded imperceptibly. Moriarty walked over to John. "You can talk, Johnny boy," he sneered. John stared at him defiantly. "Ah, the foolish Soldier, forever defiant of his enemies. It's strange, though… to think that in the end, all of this could have been easily averted had I not given the Corsairs the funding needed to defiantly attack British airships… and had I not given the Anarchists enough explosives to carry out their rebellion. They do have a point, though."

"And that would be?" Sherlock breathed, trying to steady his aim.

"Oh, don't play stupid, Sherly, we both know what the problem is. A total lack of free will. You have it even worse than most people. I could have chosen, at least, to reform my ways and stay a plain old Maths Professor forever. You were never so fortunate, as the Legacy Project proves."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, daring Moriarty to continue.

"The Anarchists just want a return to the old ways, to the system that existed centuries ago when people chose what they wanted to do with their lives. They just want to go back to days when the Factory didn't dictate about three-quarters of their lives. They want to breathe cleaner air. Is that so hard to ask?"

"You're not in it because you believe in that," Sherlock pointed out.

"Well, of course not." Moriarty rolled his eyes. "What's the fun in that? No, I'm in it because I like blowing things up, watching the world _burn_." He smirked dangerously. "Oh, I don't like getting my hands dirty, and so far no one's gotten to me."

"I have," Sherlock pointed out.

"Well, it was rather inevitable. Now you're _in my way_!"

"Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes you did."

"Okay, fine." Moriarty's grin rather resembled a shark at this point. "Flirting's over, Sherlock; _daddy's had enough now_! I've shown you what I can do, and what I will continue to do – and even if the Legacy Project makes it all inevitable that you'll disregard my warning, I'll tell you it anyway. Back off. It's been quite a treat, watching you work at these problems, connecting all the dots – but now that I have the memories, I've changed my modus operandi. Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone? To you?"

"Oh let me guess; I get killed?"

"No, don't be obvious," sniffed Moriarty. "I'm not going to kill you right now – I'll do it someday, but I don't want to rush it –"

"I thought it was rude to play with your food," sneered Sherlock.

"You and I disregard social niceties," Moriarty pointed out. "What does that matter? No, no, no – if you don't stop prying, I will burn you. I will _burn_ the _heart_ out of you."

And the way his eyes had flickered over to John at that sent prickles of fear running down Sherlock's spine. He gulped, imperceptibly. Moriarty grinned, easily reassuming his friendly demeanour.

"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one," Sherlock remarked drily, pistol still aimed at Moriarty. The Maths Professor cackled.

"Oh, we all know that's not quite true." He sent an amused look at John. "Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then again, people do get so _sentimental _about their pets." John continued to stare at him defiantly; Sherlock felt a surge of pride at his Protector's fearlessness. Even in the face of destruction via clockwork chair-bomb, John Watson was cool, unrelenting.

No, Sherlock didn't believe in heroes. But if he did, John would have been one of them.

Moriarty was speaking again. "It's quite the masterstroke, isn't it? Resurrecting Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, declaring war… all of it to stop me. I'm flattered at the attention that your brother pays towards me. But in the end, his efforts will be in vain. We all know how the story ended last time, and now I intend to take it in a different direction."

"The exposé," Sherlock murmured.

"Just so. Complete and utter destruction. I didn't grant you the luxury of that last time. Now I'll take care to. Have you enjoyed our little game? We've one last piece to play."

"People have died." Sherlock thought of the people killed with Tobias Jones's bomb, of Tobias himself and how Inspector MacDonald must have felt. He thought of Sir Charles Baskerville, Beth Davenport, James Phillimore, Sir Jeffrey Patterson, Jennifer Wilson, Henry Fowler, Ernest Toller, Andrew West – he thought of the Soldiers killed overseas, and how easily John could have been one of them – and he thought, lastly, of Anthea's Soldier brother. Arthur Charpentier, John's friend.

Moriarty shrugged it all off. "That's what people _do_!" he snapped, the violence of the last word nearly causing Sherlock to flinch. "But I want to solve this little problem of ours, Sherlock. It's going to start very soon, the final problem. The fall, remember?"

Sherlock nodded. "The Reichenbach falls."

"Falling's just like flying, except there's a more permanent destination." He smirked. "I owe you a fall, Sherlock."

"You fell, the last time."

"This time I won't." Moriarty smirked. "Well, I better be off. So nice to have had a proper chat. You've only ten minutes on the clock, anyway."

"And what if I was to shoot you right now?" Sherlock's finger strayed towards the trigger. Moriarty laughed.

"You could cherish the look of surprise on my face," he replied, mouth forming a perfect O and eyes widening almost comically. "I'd be surprised, you know. And a teensy bit disappointed – but then again, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long." He started walking back towards the other door, grinning widely. "_Ciao_, Sherlock Holmes."

As his footsteps receded, Sherlock set the gun down and rushed to John, hands fumbling at the straps that tied him down to the chair.

"Are you all right?" he gasped, pulling John away from the bomb as quickly as possible and back into the glass-encased pool room. The sun had already descended behind the tallest buildings, dusky golds and purples scattered across the sky. It looked magnificent, beautiful, but all Sherlock cared about was checking John for injuries.

"I'm fine, Sherlock –" John barely had space to say that before Sherlock was kissing him, roughly crushing his Protector to his chest in the desperate need to feel that he was solidly there, alive. "Sherlock!" he gasped as soon as they broke apart. "Are you okay?"

"I… I don't know… if I lost you…" Sherlock nuzzled John's cheek frantically. "He didn't do anything to you, did he?"

"I said I'm fine," John repeated. Sherlock nodded, trying to slow down his heart rate. "Sherlock, please. Catch your breath, and then we'll…" his eyes suddenly went wide. "Vatican cameos!"

Sherlock quickly lurched sideways, dragging John with him into the pool as a nearly silent bullet whizzed through the air and into the locker rooms behind them.

Moments later a deafening roar filled the air, accompanied by the tinkling of shattering glass.

* * *

><p>Lestrade raced to Downing Street through the light intermittent rain. Mycroft was standing outside, his umbrella open above his head. He was smoking a cigar contemplatively as the Detective Inspector drew up, panting.<p>

"Coffee, Greg?" Mycroft asked pleasantly.

"There's been an explosion –"

"Yes, I know. I also know that my brother was involved."

Lestrade frowned. "What?"

"Let me show you." Mycroft closed the umbrella and directed him into the building. They headed for Mycroft's office. A surveillance droid's memory plates were laid out on the table before them, exposing thousands of tiny photographs in a constant film reel. Mycroft inserted a set into the droid and turned a key; moments later the droid began projecting the pictures onto an empty wall.

Lestrade's eyes went wide. "That's Dr. Watson."

"Excellent observation," Mycroft replied calmly. "You see, Sherlock could not have been responsible for the bombings. He'd never do that to his Protector."

Lestrade nodded. "So you're showing me proof for the Chief Superintendent?"

"Exactly. But first, we've got some rescuing work to do. Are the ambulances already at the Rec Centre?"

"Yes; we've got Search and Rescue M.A.T.I.N.s on it as well. Wait, isn't that the jewel thief? Professor Moriarty?"

"Yes." Mycroft's face was unreadable. Lestrade frowned at the screen.

"He's responsible for the bombings, too," he said after a moment. Mycroft nodded. "We better get our feelers out for him, then."

"No use; he's already left the crime scene with the sniper who set off the bomb. Remember ex-Colonel Moran?"

"Oh god." Lestrade rubbed his temples. "Him again."

"Just so." Mycroft turned off the droid and took out the plates, giving them to Lestrade in a little pouch. "Take those to the Chief Superintendent as soon as possible."

Lestrade nodded, leaving briskly. As soon as he left, Anthea re-entered with her phone. "We've found a substitute location," she announced.

"Excellent work. Where is it?" Mycroft asked, smiling jovially.

"Meiringen, Switzerland."

The smile quickly faded from Mycroft's face.

* * *

><p>The M.A.T.I.N.s were barking madly when Lestrade arrived on the scene. As he watched, the mechanical dogs rushed to the side of the heap of rubble that had been the Rec Centre and started drilling through the rubble.<p>

There was a splash. Moments later, a M.A.T.I.N. emerged, bearing a dark blue scarf.

_They're in there, sir_, it barked at Lestrade.

"Dead or alive?"

_Alive, sir_.

Moments later, more M.A.T.I.N.s re-emerged, dragging with them the unconscious forms of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. The Emergency Medics swooped on them, strapping them onto stretchers and carrying them into the ambulance. The siren whistles blew; the mechanical horses clicked into life, and Lestrade hopped onto the ambulance as well as it started making its way to the nearest hospital.

The lamps shone brightly. Lestrade noted several burns and shrapnel wounds on the couple, but aside from that there didn't seem to be significant damage. Sherlock's eyelids fluttered; the Detective Inspector reached out and squeezed his hand reassuringly.

"We're getting you to the hospital, Sherlock. Hang on."

* * *

><p>Sherlock came to consciousness once they were in the hospital; the first thing that he called for was John, lying in the bed next to him. The Doctors tending to his wounds had to assure him that Dr. Watson was alive and relatively well and not to disturb him. Sherlock only managed to sit through their care for a couple more minutes before he bolted upright to get a better look at John.<p>

"His shoulder," he said suddenly. "Left shoulder. Is it all right?"

"It…" the Doctor sighed. "He'll have a Mechanic look at that later."

"So it's not all right." Sherlock glared, got up, and ran over to where John lay in a white nightshirt that appeared to have been sent over from Baker Street. He reached down, pulling away the nightshirt from John's shoulder.

They'd removed the outer metal casing around the gears and cogs; those had been damaged in the blast and fallout. Several of them were loose; others were quickly rusting over. Some were missing altogether. Extensive Mechanic care did seem to be in order. Sherlock sighed.

"Mr. Holmes," the Doctor stated drily. "I'd like to finish sewing your head back up, please."

Sherlock groaned, but obliged.


	42. The Anglo Ottoman Treaty

**Part XLI**

John woke up to see white, vaulted ceilings. He shifted into a semi-sitting position, working out the kinks in his body and wincing at the pain in his shoulder. He rolled it experimentally, testing out the replaced cogs. It functioned stiffly, painfully, and he hissed sharply before looking over to see Sherlock sitting by the window.

Sherlock sported plasters up and down his arms and bandages around his head, but otherwise looked unharmed. He looked over at John, expression neutral. John could see the struggle in the nearly imperceptible movements around his eyes – he was struggling to rein in the pain, the emotions. Sherlock's walls were wavering; they'd been tested sorely these past couple of days.

"Are you all right?" John asked quietly.

"I should ask that of you," Sherlock replied. "Are you all right?"

"Fine." John smiled, despite the pain in his shoulder. Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly. "Don't worry."

"I'm going to kill Moriarty," Sherlock muttered, hate colouring his words. "For doing this to you, I'm going to kill him."

It was worth it, John realised. It was worth the wound, it was worth all of the wounds he could have sustained to realise that below the almost metallic exterior, Sherlock did care. That, despite everything, Sherlock loved him. He wasn't a sociopath; he wasn't a clockwork droid with a cold, mechanical heart. He was human, and he loved John Watson – and despite his better judgement, John loved him, too.

He smiled. "Well, I'm sure the opportunity will present itself soon. You haven't answered my question – are you all right?"

"Fine," Sherlock replied, moving his chair to John's side and taking his hand. "As soon as you're fit, we can go home." Outside the sunlight was filtering in through the window, backlighting Sherlock almost like a halo. "I haven't signed the discharge papers, though; your shoulder –"

"Is fine," John insisted.

"No, you're pained by it," Sherlock pointed out.

"Something's probably just screwed in a little tighter. I can loosen it –"

"Call for the Mechanic," Sherlock gestured to the horn at his bedside table.

"No, I'll manage."

"Don't be ridiculous, John."

John rolled his eyes and rotated his left arm, hiding his wincing. "I'll get used to it; it's just discomfort."

"You're a rock. Immovable."

"Takes one to know one."

They laughed at that, before John sighed and agreed to let someone else loosen some of the springs. They called for the Mechanic, who had John remove his nightshirt so he could check the shoulder. Sherlock watched the Mechanic's fingers deftly undo the metal plating and start unscrewing the necessary cogs and adjusting the springs and gears, part of him itching to do the same, to discover the parts that put John's shoulder together.

The Mechanic left as soon as the job was done, leaving Sherlock and John to sign the discharge papers in silence. "Sorry about dinner," John remarked once they were done. Sherlock laughed shortly.

"Wasn't your fault," he pointed out.

"No, I don't think it was. But still."

Sherlock nodded. After a moment, John reached for his hand. "We haven't had the time to talk like this," he said quietly. "Just you and me and nothing pressing going on, not having to run for our lives. So I was wondering… are you really all right?"

"I don't like to repeat myself," Sherlock muttered.

"And you don't need to pretend like it's all okay, being a clone of your great-great-great grandfather."

"How are you handling it, John?" Sherlock's jaw was stiff; his eyes were a bit shinier than normal. "To live your entire life not knowing that you're simply repeating someone else's…"

"We didn't repeat everything," John pointed out. "It's been a century; times change."

"The wheel turns, but the same spokes come up. I know that, but not much else. It frustrates me." Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair. "Would you deviate, John? Live the rest of your life defying your fate?"

"And abandon you? Cogswallop." John rolled his eyes. Sherlock's mouth twitched slightly in a smile. "That's the problem with the Holmes-Watson Protectorship, isn't it? You've heard the stories. Textbook definition of inseparable."

"So you're not leaving me," Sherlock affirmed, his voice small, almost lost. John wondered how many people had left him when he was younger. He had a sudden urge to find out who they were and hunt them down, but he quashed the Protector instinct with a fury and smiled at Sherlock.

"Don't be daft, of course I'm not."

Sherlock nodded, before standing up again and donning his coat and scarf. "We better be off, then. Dress quickly; the game's not over yet!"

* * *

><p>"You're fine with Meiringen?" Mycroft asked the grey-haired Foreign Minister, Lord Norton Holdhurst. A Politician by hereditary 'Assignment', Lord Holdhurst had been appointed to head the Foreign Office in the latest administration and was therefore in charge of the extremely important Anglo-Ottoman treaty.<p>

"Perfectly fine," agreed Lord Holdhurst. "I shall have my nephew run a copy of it before he finishes his leave."

"Make sure you impress upon him the gravity of the task. The treaty must be guarded at all times." Mycroft fixed the Politician with his steeliest glare. "Should anything happen…"

"My own name would be tarnished; I understand the implications," replied the lord smoothly. "I will have it all under control, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft nodded, taking a bite of cake. "You won't have any of this red velvet?"

"Not hungry, sorry." Lord Holdhurst sighed, and nodded at his own Protector Assistant. The young man walked over; Lord Holdhurst whispered something in his ear, and the man nodded and left.

"How is your nephew doing with the Japanese Treaty?" Mycroft asked, steeping his fingers together.

"Revision process," replied Holdhurst. "He's left Gubbins in charge back in Tokyo; the man is very capable and keeps us both updated on the developments. They seem to be coming close to a final product; I expect signings around the end of January next year."

"Sentiment has clouded his mind as of late," Mycroft noted. "Your nephew, I mean. Met a bright young woman in Brighton, I believe."

"Mary? A delight. Very cosmopolitan and refined. I already approve of the courtship."

"He hasn't declared any such intent, though."

"No, but I don't need to be your younger brother to see his interest in her."

The two men laughed at that, and Mycroft poured more brandy for Holdhurst. The door opened, and young Delegate Percy Fraser walked in, bright-eyed and beaming.

"Ah, Percy, my boy!" Lord Holdhurst stood up and embraced his nephew, beaming as well. "How the young fools do fall in love."

"Ten letters already and no change in relationship, Delegate Fraser! Very undiplomatic of you," Mycroft remarked.

"Well, we can't all invite our loves to holidays aboard the A.S. _Diogenes_," the young man retorted. "Sorry if I speak out of line, though," he added softly.

Mycroft smirked, waving away the jibe. "No, unfortunately not. In any case, before you go pen your eleventh letter to Miss Morstan, your uncle has a very important task for you."

"Yes," agreed Lord Holdhurst. "Perce, this is the original of the Anglo-Ottoman treaty, the one that will end our war and secure an alliance to fight the Sky Corsair coalition. The contents of this treaty must be guarded from the public at all costs. After all, should the Anarchists or the Russians hear of it, then…" he trailed off. "You know how it is."

"Yes, sir."

"Lock the treaty in your desk when you are not copying it – I would prefer that they remain in my office, but the need for a copy is paramount. I'll make sure you can stay behind to copy it at your leisure."

"Yes, sir."

"Make a Banda of the treaty, lock both up when you are done, and hand them to me personally before the week is over."

"Yes, sir."

Lord Holdhurst smiled, before handing over the rolled paper. Percy took it, nodded at the two of them, and left the room.

"Odd, copying the treaty before it even gets signed," Lord Holdhurst remarked as the young Delegate left.

Mycroft sighed. "I don't suppose you understand how crucial it is."

"It's crucial to saving the boys in Alexandria and over Constantinople, but I'm afraid I'm not seeing anything beyond that."

"We can always add the signatures to the Banda later." Mycroft stared into his glass. "The Castle of Meiringen is lovely at this time of year."

"Very. Complements the Reichenbach perfectly." Holdhurst watched him, seemingly trying to puzzle out the Archagent's thoughts. Mycroft leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of brandy. He thought of Sherlock, recently acquitted but still not out of the woods. He thought of the Project, possibly drawing to a close. He thought of the treaty, the end of the war, the signing at the Reichenbach Falls.

Cog, he needed another holiday.

* * *

><p>The next puzzle arrived days later. A picture appeared on the screen of the brass laptop – a photograph of a treaty. Moments later, the Post Pigeon came in with a letter for John.<p>

"It's… the address is Mary's," John noted, frowning.

Sherlock gestured for him to open it. John obliged, taking out the letter and frowning at the shaky handwriting. He handed the paper to Sherlock, who looked it over.

"Male, seems to be very nervous as he wrote it, as if he can't trust his own strength," he murmured. "But then again, in the letter he says he's rather delirious, feverish. May be coming down with something."

"Nerves," John replied quietly. "It's from Tadpole, Mary's new beau."

The letter read:

_My dear John,_

_It indeed is a small world if a man can have the fortune (or misfortune, for you?) to fall in love and be loved by the former fancy of his school-fellow. I trust you and Mr. Holmes are very happy? I only hope for a relationship that echoes the ties of your Protectorship. But we aren't here to discuss Mary – we're here to discuss a little problem of mine._

_Actually, it's not a little problem – it's a much bigger problem, really. I've become delirious with worry, feverish with anxiety about it. This misfortune of mine is sadly of national importance, and I need the assistance of the Consulting Detective as soon as possible. Perhaps he has already been goaded into taking my unhappy case by his brother, but at the end of the day I should like to have his help and to see how you are coping. _

_Your old school-fellow,  
>Percy H. Fraser<em>

"The treaty," Sherlock said as soon as John finished reading. "Your friend's problem is pressing enough that he thinks Mycroft is already on my case about it, so it must be about the treaty that will end the war. Since Moriarty is partly responsible for the war I'm sure the treaty he shows on here is the very same treaty Delegate Fraser would like for us to recover."

"It's missing!" John exclaimed incredulously.

"Stolen, most likely by one of Moriarty's agents." Sherlock nodded. "We'll have to pay Percy Fraser a visit, then. Shall we?"

Percy Fraser had tufty dark-brown hair and prominent cheekbones, not to mention the beginnings of a moustache and beard. His blue eyes were glazed with fever, but he was doggedly pursuing his work in bed, gasping over ciphers that Mary's Maid was handing to him by the hour. When John and Sherlock entered the sickroom, the Maid was just exiting. Sherlock glanced at her on his way in.

"No rest for the weary, I see," he remarked as John greeted Percy, who lay propped against the pillows looking through his cipher-scanner. The handheld device rather resembled a pistol with several slots for various cipher discs.

"Never a rest for the Delegates," Percy replied wryly, spinning one of the discs and writing out another sentence on a pad of paper. His hands trembled when John shook them. "Can you fetch me some water? My throat is dryer than the Sahara."

John poured his old friend a glass, and Percy gratefully sipped as Mary entered the room with a bottle of A.P.C. and a bowl with a washcloth.

"John! How nice of you to drop by," she sighed as she took a seat by the ailing diplomatist and started tending to him. "Poor Percy here has a fever of about forty degrees and he still insists on working."

"Sherlock's nearly caught brain-fever before but he still took a case," John replied. Sherlock had, indeed, caught a dangerously high fever halfway through a case involving a speckled blonde, but insisted on seeing the case to its conclusion. John had confined him to the bedroom for nearly a week after that. Mary sent him a look that clearly said 'so this road together, then', and John laughed.

"I'm here to ask Mr. Holmes for help!" Percy declared loudly as he avoided the tablespoon of medicine like a petulant child. "I need to retrieve the –" Mary shoved the spoon into his mouth, cutting him off mid-sentence. Sherlock laughed.

"The Anglo-Ottoman Treaty, I know," he said, taking the cipher-scanner from Percy as the Delegate swallowed the A.P.C. with a sour expression. "Now tell me the facts. The sooner this is resolved, the better off you'll be."

Percy nodded, leaning back against the pillows to recount his tale.

* * *

><p>Ever since his uncle gave him the task of making a Banda of the treaty, Percy had guarded it jealously at his desk for the two days it took to transpose the entire treaty. But on the third – just a day ago – as he embarked on the last set of articles of the treaty he had had a sudden desire for some coffee and had accordingly rung for some.<p>

A commissionaire lived downstairs in the building where he worked, always making coffee for officers who worked overtime. But he seemed to be absent that night, since Percy had rung twice and finished two articles in between that time. On the third ring, however, a woman appeared. She was the commissionaire's wife, and she took his order. But the coffee still hadn't come after he'd finished the treaty, so he decided to find out what the delay was.

It turned out that the commissionaire was fast asleep at the kettle, but before Percy could rouse him, a bell rang directly over his head and roused him violently.

"Mr. Fraser, sir!" he exclaimed. "What are you –?"

"I came down here to see if the coffee was ready."

"I was boiling the kettle, and then… wait, but if you were here, then who rang that bell?" He turned to look at the bell, the only ringing bell out of all the rows of silent ones. Each one sported the number of the room the ringer was in, and to Percy's horror, the bell that had rung corresponded to the one in his office.

"I… oh my cogs and whistles." The young diplomat bolted up the curved staircase to the second-floor landing, down the straight, dimly-lit passage, and into his office. There was no one inside, and nothing seemed to be disturbed – nothing except the treaty, which had been taken.

Now, the layout of the building was construed such that there was only one entrance and exit into Percy's office, and it would have led to that straight passage to the stairs. However, halfway down the stairs there was a servant's landing that led to a second stair, which in turn led to the side door used by the Clerks. Percy's office itself sported no room for hiding; the hallway was the same. The thief must have come up from the side door, and it was a quarter to twenty-two hours by the time Percy and the commissionaire exited onto Charles Street in pursuit of the thief.

But their efforts were in vain – the commissionaire and his wife did not have the treaty – no one else who could have been in the building at the time had the treaty – yet the treaty remained missing. And so, delirious with worry and with his deadline approaching (although by now it was inevitable that his uncle knew about the failure), Percy had fallen sick and turned to his one solace left in life, Mary. Now he had called, despite the scandals that surrounded him no thanks to Jim Moriarty, on Sherlock Holmes to save him.


	43. Coke in the Hearth

**Part XLII**

Sherlock and John spent the rest of the day interviewing other people involved – Lord Holdhurst and Detective Inspector Forbes, who had been called to interrogate the suspects after the robbery was reported. They uncovered nothing but the innocence of the entire suspect list.

"Disheartening," Sherlock harrumphed as they prepared to report to Delegate Fraser that evening. But when they arrived, they were quickly surprised to see the young man up and about, excitement evident in his blue eyes.

"I think I'm a target!" he exclaimed, handing them a clockwork droid memory plate. "I took a nap once you two were gone and Mary had gone to do the shopping, and I was just drifting into sleep when I heard a strange clicking noise by the window. I bolted up, threw open the shutters, and saw a hooded figure trying to open the window with a knife!"

"That wouldn't necessarily make you a target. Take a seat," Sherlock suggested, pacing the floor in front of the hearth in the guest bedroom. "Did you get a look at the figure?"

"I could tell it was a female," Percy replied. "I rang the bell, but it took a while before anyone arrived. Mary was the first by my side, and then the Maid. They sent out a droid to look for clues, and there's the memory plate with their findings."

"What do you think the burglar was looking for?" John asked Mary. "What things of value do you keep in the guest bedroom?"

"I haven't a clue," Mary replied. "There's nothing of value in there."

Sherlock looked through the plates, noting trampled soil under the window and a slightly dented brass fence. He looked up, smiling at Mary.

"Miss Morstan, may I have a word?"

Mary followed him into the hall, eyes clouded with confusion. Sherlock's smile faded as soon as they were out of earshot.

"I need to ask a favour of you," he told her. "Your participation is crucial to my plan's success. First, I need to know how to access the servants' quarters."

"The kitchen, back staircase," Mary breathed.

"Good. I also need you to stay in the guest room. I will have Percy and John return to Baker Street, and I will go with them – but only as far as the station; I'll come back at about twenty-two hours and I need you to send over your most discrete droid to let me in as quietly as possible. Make sure no one else in the house knows, and you are not allowed to leave Percy's room until I relieve you at twenty-two hours. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," Mary replied, nodding at him. "Do you already know who did it?"

"I have a theory," Sherlock affirmed, before dashing off in the direction of the kitchen.

He quickly located the cloakroom, but he found no hood. He looked through the boots, but the only set dirtied by the dirt and mud in the yard was a pair of droid garden boots, small for most humans. It was designed to keep gardener droids from getting too muddy when they worked outside. Sherlock couldn't find the knife either, but ran upstairs to go through the servants' quarters all the same. They were all absent, and the gardening droid had been turned off.

In the hallway outside the Maid's room there sat a brass tub full of coke, the type of coal used in hearths. Sherlock examined a lump before turning his attentions to the tools – and then he got up and returned to the guest room.

"It's getting late," he told John. "We better get going. Percy, come with us."

"What?" Percy asked, frowning.

"You are coming to Baker Street with us," Sherlock muttered as Mary took her post by Percy's bed. "Don't worry; John's a very capable doctor and will tend to you if your fever gets too high again. Let's go."

* * *

><p>John was extremely confused, to say the least. Sherlock was a whirlwind of excitement, grasping onto a theorised picture and testing it all out to see if it would hold. At the station, he told them that he was going to stay overnight at Mary's, and not to expect him until breakfast tomorrow morning.<p>

"No, John, you're not coming with me. You need to tend to your old school-friend." Sherlock seemed to be in a good mood, even if he was being even more enigmatic than usual. John would have protested, but he could tell that Sherlock had a plan and wouldn't be budged to change it. Once again, the rock was immovable.

Which naturally meant that John spent a rather quiet and miserable evening at Baker Street, reading the evening paper. The front page article was about the upcoming exposé, and John wondered why Sherlock and Mycroft hadn't halted the presses yet. But then again, they were dramatic people and were probably waiting for the right opportunity.

"Why do you think he made us stay at Baker Street? Is it because I'm a target?" Percy asked quietly.

"You probably aren't," John replied. "Sherlock's onto something, I think."

"What have I gotten myself into, copying that treaty?" the young Delegate sighed. "I think that's why there was someone trying to rob a room that has nothing valuable stored in it, and with a knife nonetheless. Maybe they wanted to kill me for having a hand with the treaty."

"That'd make no sense; the Anarchists want the war over. They'd welcome the treaty," John pointed out. "No, if there's a conspiracy in here it's got nothing to do with you." His eyes flickered back to the brass laptop. "You sure it was a knife?"

"Definitely. I saw the blade."

"I guess Sherlock's theory is that if he takes your place at Mary's he'll be able to catch the person responsible." John stared at the laptop, firelight from the hearth dancing across his face. "You can't have two different enemies; that'd be absurd. You barely had one back at school."

"I thought Charlie was –"

"Charlie Abbott wasn't your enemy, Perce. If anything he was your fanboy." John laughed, rolling his eyes. "Besides, his wealthy cousin managed to send him to Eton after third so I doubt you two had enough time to become enemies."

"Wonder what he's up to," Percy mused, staring into the flames as if expecting them to give him an answer. After a moment, he spoke up again. "What was that about the Anarchists?"

"What?" John was now puttering about the flat, making a late-night mug of tea. "Oh, yes, the Anarchists. They've been at the centre of some of our cases, but since they're anti-war I doubt they're involved in this one. If they are, it's probably got something to do with –" he cut off swiftly. "Never mind. In any case you really ought to get some rest, Perce, this can't be good for your health."

"You do believe in him, don't you?"

"In Sherlock? Always."

"That's good, having such faith in him. I'm not sure what to make of him myself; he's very inscrutable and unsociable, isn't he?"

"That's true," John replied. "I've heard less flattering things about him."

"Do you think he's going to solve it? Find the treaty?"

"He's said nothing about it."

"That's not a good sign, is it?"

John laughed. "No, actually, that's a good sign. Shows that he's thinking, testing out theories. He'd tell me if he was off the trail."

"Oh." Percy leaned heavily in his seat, rubbing at his eyes blearily. John reached over, pressing the back of his palm to his former classmate's head.

"You're still burning. You need to sleep or you'll never get better. You can take the room upstairs; let me help you."

But even John lay awake hours later, tossing, turning, and thinking about what Sherlock was up to at Mary's. Only the morning would tell whether or not Sherlock had been on the right track, but in the meantime John worried.

* * *

><p>Sherlock's face at the breakfast table was unnaturally sombre. John felt that that boded ill, and Percy seemed to think the same since he declared himself too melancholy with nerves to eat.<p>

The clockwork droid that had been so useful before in capturing Moran now arrived with three breakfast trays. Sherlock insisted that Percy at least try his food, and the Delegate morosely reached for the covering.

He drew it aside with astonishment on his face.

"What – what – how! How did you –?" he demanded, grabbing the roll of paper sitting on his plate and unrolling it, reading through the contents eagerly. His face was aglow; it seemed as if he'd never had the fever at all.

"That is the Anglo-Ottoman Treaty, correct?" Sherlock asked, as if uncovering priceless documents at breakfast-time was a normal occurrence at 221B Baker Street. John laughed.

"Judging by the way he's dancing in his seat, yes. Did you really have to show it off like that?"

"I'm a showoff. It's what we do." Sherlock smirked, uncovering his food and digging in. "Although you really must thank Mary for being so complicit with my instructions. She does have a lot more going for her than what I originally gave her credit for."

John snorted. "Glad you finally came 'round."

Percy had deftly tucked the treaty away on the inside breast pocket of his blazer, beaming. "I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Holmes!" he exclaimed. "I'm highly indebted to you."

"I had to solve the case," Sherlock replied, in a tone that would have sounded modest had his eyes not flickered to the brass laptop. He abruptly got up, walked over to the table on which it sat, and typed in his results.

Moments later, his mobile rang. Sherlock put it on speakers; John leaned forward anxiously.

"The Maid, Josefa Wenceslas, stole the treaty," Sherlock stated calmly. "Like I told you via laptop, it was the Maid."

Silence.

"How I figured it out? That's not important; the important part is that it was the Maid!"

More silence for a couple more minutes, and then the voice of a young boy wafted out of the speakers.

"_Three_!"

"Now that is simply not fair! A kid? You had to strap a kid to your death-trap? Exactly how depraved are you?" Sherlock snapped at the phone in irritation. Percy looked at John, eyes clouded with confusion. John shook his head, mouthing 'you're better off not knowing' at him.

"_Two_!"

Sherlock sighed. "I said it was the Maid! How obvious does it get from there?"

"Sherlock, just tell him how you figured it out!" John shouted.

"_One_!"

"The coke in the hearth!"

Silence. After a moment, the child spoke up again in a whisper.

"_Someone help me, someone please help me_…"

"Dial Lestrade," Sherlock snapped at John. "Tell him the location when I give it to you."

Within moments, a young boy was reunited with his family. Sherlock and John sent Percy on his way back to Whitehall, where he would return the treaty to his uncle. Disaster averted.

"The coke in the hearth?" John asked as they walked back to Baker Street with the morning sun shining down upon them. It was a beautiful mid-September day; the leaves in the parks were starting to fall and the crisp wind of autumn blew their hair in all directions. "What do you mean by that?"

"Josefa Wenceslas, as the Maid, is required to ensure that the coke in the hearths of every bedroom do not go out. She therefore has access to every room but is required to keep out of the way when she is not called. I encountered her on our way in to see Delegate Fraser; her feet are very small even for a woman, the perfect size to fit into droid gardening boots. Since the gardening droid was turned off, it could not have stained its boots with mud.

"When I arranged to discreetly slip in to relieve Mary of her vigil in the sick-room, I ensured that no one in the household knew that I was returning. The droid she selected had no memory plate and would therefore not report my arrival to any of the other servants. We made it clear, though, that Delegate Fraser wasn't staying overnight and that soon Miss Morstan would not be in the guest room when she retired to bed. It'd be the perfect opportunity to make away with the treaty.

"I quickly hid myself in the guest-room after Mary left, and within the hour the Maid entered with her bin of coke to refill the hearth. But she did more than that – she loosened the floorboard to the side of the hearth and pulled it up, revealing the treaty. It was only a matter of detaining her, taking the papers, and sending a textogram to Forbes about the entire affair. I let her go, though; he'll catch her before long and I'm sure the Frasers and Lord Holdhurst will ensure that the case doesn't get into court for fear of scandal."

"So it was in the same room as him the entire time!" John exclaimed.

"Just so. And as a Maid, she could have easily used the servants' entry into the office and not be questioned."

"But why did she ring the bell?"

"Now that's the puzzle. The most likely explanation is orders from Moriarty. After all, he knew that the treaty had gone missing; it was all part of the game."

"Blimey." John sighed as they stopped outside 221B to fetch the morning papers. "What do you think is going to happen to her?"

"Deassignment if she doesn't get away with it. Fugitive life if she does. Perhaps she'll go back to Bohemia; it is where she comes from, after all."

John nodded, and turned his attention to the front-page story of the _Clockwork Times_.

His blood ran cold at the headlines.


	44. The Pledge

**Part XLIII**

**THE TRUTH ABOUT SHERLOCK HOLMES**

_Startling, scandalous new testimonials from three childhood friends of Holmes reveal that our Consulting Detective simply cannot be trusted. In this shocking exposé by staff Reporter Kitty Reilly, Sherlock Holmes's secrets will be laid bare for the world to see him as he truly is – a manipulative fraud._

"Let me tell you the truth about Sherlock Holmes," says a young man to me as we sit in a darkened room, with the only light source a lantern hanging from the ceiling by a slender thread of wire. "He's ordinary."

That's a shocking thing to say about the already-legendary genius Consulting Detective. The great-great-great-grandnephew of the original Consulting Detective, Holmes has already taken to his Reassignment like a duck to water by solving dozens of cases in a matter of months. Even before he officially got the Assignment, he had been assisting the previous Consulting Detective Hercule Poirot in his cases.

"Yes, but he's entirely, entirely ordinary. All of those cases that he's solving? They're all fabricated." The man smirks. "He's nothing but a big, fat fraud."

This man is one of Holmes's childhood friends, an Actor named Richard Brook. He and his two colleagues Steven Ratigan and Mark Fidget were close to Holmes throughout their childhood years, and a bit beyond. The three were often invited to the Holmes Manor in Sussex for their Christmas parties, and all four remained inseparable until Holmes went to university and the three received their Assignments.

"It's funny, befriending an upper-class bloke like him," says Ratigan. "We thought he wasn't like the others. Turns out we were wrong."

Indeed, a couple years into university Holmes dropped out to apply for an Assignment, claiming that life at the Oxbridges were "absolutely mind-numbing and dull". He quickly found an Assignment as a Forensic Researcher for the Metropolitan Police, but apparently spent his days whipping corpses at St. Bartholomew's Hospital and impinging on the Consulting Detective's cases.

"He was always barging into the morgue asking to see the bodies," admits Pathologist Molly Hooper. "I usually tell him I can't roll them back out; I'd done the post-mortems and all of the paperwork's gone through – but then he'd turn on the charm and I'd just be oil in his hands."

Hooper isn't the first to fall to Holmes's manipulation, though. He has, in fact, been doing it for years. Twisting the picture, distorting the truth – Brook says that Holmes's genius lies not in deductive prowess, but rather in manipulation.

"He couldn't have gotten it from the old Sherlock, obviously not," says Brook. "No, he's directly descended from the_ old_ Mycroft Holmes, and that man is the king of puppeteers. It runs in the family."

But what could have caused a man to turn against his childhood friends like Brook and co. have against Holmes? The answer is simple – it's the reason why Holmes is a fraud.

"So after the three of us left theatre school we were kinda just drifting around, looking for the opportunity to get picked up by a passing theatre or troupe," says Brook. "Well, along came Sherlock and he told us that he was going to give us the chance of a lifetime. A performance in a leading role. We were going to play his archenemies, Professor Jim Moriarty and his brothers Jamie and Seamus."

This, indeed, is the shocker of the century… (_continued on page 2_)

* * *

><p>London was aflame. Not literally, but in the hearts of the people, the hearts of a people who believed that they had been deceived.<p>

The only people who didn't believe the story were those who Sherlock had helped. But even those supporters were few against the waves of protest that crashed upon Baker Street. Every morning, John woke up to the sound of protestation and fell asleep to the calls for Sherlock's Deassignment. It wrenched at his heart. Sherlock refused to leave his quarters and even stilled his violin. John found it unnerving – like they were under house arrest, fugitives hiding in the attic of their home.

The signs weren't all for Sherlock, though. John had gone out for the shopping one morning and returned to Baker Street only to be accosted by several people brandishing signs that said "JOHN WATSON: KILLER DOCTOR" in vibrant, shameful red.

"Why did Arthur Charpentier have to die?" they shouted. "Why didn't you save him?"

That was the moment when John realised why Anthea had made it perfectly clear that he wasn't to blame for her brother's death.

He stumbled into the flat moments later, eyes wide and heart pounding, and Sherlock was there to enfold him into a hug and tell him that he wasn't a killer, that he wasn't guilty – that all of this would die down eventually and life would go back to the way it was.

"It's all propaganda," Sherlock reassured him. "It'll blow over soon. It'll be okay."

"No, it _won't_!" John snapped, striding over to his armchair and flopping down with an almighty huff. "It's _not_ okay, it _won't_ be okay – this is Moriarty, Sherlock! This is the fall that he's talking about!"

"The fall from grace," Sherlock murmured.

"Both of us this time." John's nostrils flared. "Sherlock, we need to get away from Baker Street. Moriarty's got the country mobbing us in on the unreliable words of an obviously biased Reporter."

"I'd guessed as much," Sherlock replied quietly. "Which is why…" He gestured to the valises sitting in the middle of the flat. "Violet Hunter's letting us hide at her place. She and her husband don't believe Reilly's article."

"As they should; it's a load of whistle-steam," John growled. "When do we leave?"

They left under cover of night, via fire escape like two criminals – and in the eyes of the public, they were. A cab driven by Mycroft pulled up for them, taking them to Violet's place. John watched the fires of the protestors die away in the distance, unable to restrain the wetness in his eyes. Sherlock gripped his hands tight enough to whiten his knuckles.

"He used the memories," Mycroft remarked bitterly from the driver's seat as the mechanical horses clattered through deathly silent, foggy London, guided only by the tiny pinpricks of streetlights. "The memories on the Bruce-Partington Key."

"You can stop it, can't you?" John asked.

"To do that would be to give away the true nature of the Project." Mycroft sighed. "It also wouldn't help you, either. Would you rather be treated as human, although possibly framed as a killer, or as a clone, a puppet of the state?"

John bit his lips, nodding. Mycroft had a point, albeit a painful one.

"We're not going to Deassign you, though, if that's what you're worried about," Mycroft added with a dry chuckle. "That would defeat the purpose of the entire Project."

"We can't go to the Reichenbach," John insisted. "We are not going there; Moriarty would have devised something that would prevent his fall and ensure Sherlock's. I can't bear for that to happen."

"No, obviously not," Mycroft murmured, sounding slightly distracted as he pulled up at Violet Hunter (or rather, Violet Ernest)'s house. John and Sherlock piled out; Sherlock grudgingly thanked his brother for the transport. He even lingered behind to discuss something with Mycroft, shooing John ahead with their things. John watched them from afar; they seemed to be conspiring.

A thick heavy sadness descended upon him, an echo of the dreams he had as child about a certain Swiss waterfall.

* * *

><p>The days passed quietly. Sherlock spent his days experimenting with the clockwork mice. Basil and Dawson took to him eagerly, often sitting on his shoulders when they weren't running through obstacle courses for him.<p>

The term had begun at the schools, so Violet's husband was once again absent. But Violet herself was often around, tinkering in their garage with various mechanical animals. John often watched her when he wasn't watching Sherlock; it was like watching an Artist work with the airbrush or listening to Sherlock play the violin. Entrancing – there was no other word for the way she skilfully fixed and improved the animals under her care.

Anthea got in touch, telling him that her parents had acted adversely to the article, as expected. John accepted it resignedly; he knew that most people were highly susceptible to propaganda and the Charpentiers didn't know the story of their son's death as well as their daughter did. He could only hope for the best, hope that Anthea was telling them the truth.

But aside from that, John had accepted this unexpected holiday, even if its reasons were nerve-wracking. Every morning, he checked the papers in the hopes of finding change. But every day he was disappointed – the _Clockwork Times_ eagerly pointed out that they'd locked themselves up in Baker Street, possibly humiliated and guilty. Deassignment must be around the corner. Brook's testimonies should be taken as gospel.

And then one morning, the headlines blared about the disappearance of Richard Brook. Sherlock took that as a sign.

"He's moved. Moriarty's moved, and he seems to have left his brothers behind." He was hiding behind the paper; raising it purposefully to obscure his face. John slathered a scone with jam and sighed.

"We are not going to chase after him, Sherlock. That would be pointless."

"Obviously," Sherlock replied. "What month is it?"

"October, why?"

Sherlock said nothing, merely grabbing a nearby pen and circling something on the picture above the fold. John leaned over to see.

Sitting on the lapel of "Richard Brook" was a pin in the shape of an apple, into which was carved the letters I, O, and U.

John's breath caught in his throat at that, and he found it even harder to breathe when the post arrived with a letter for him. It was from Mrs. Hudson.

"She's ill," he remarked. "Almost deathly so. Sherlock, we need to go back to Baker Street."

"You do that. They're less likely to attack you," Sherlock replied coldly, his eyes distant.

"What do you mean?" John frowned, not liking the response or the expression on his charge's face. "Sherlock, what –"

"Go to Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied, his face a mask of calm.

"Not without you," John snapped.

"Yes, without me."

"Are you daft? I am not leaving you."

"Yes, you are. Leave me alone, John. Go tend to Mrs. Hudson; she needs it more than I do."

"Why aren't you coming? Don't you care about Mrs. Hudson?"

"She's our landlady; why would I care?"

John couldn't believe his ears. Never before had he seen Sherlock more droid-like than at this moment, as he sat at the breakfast table insisting that he didn't care. That he didn't have a heart.

Disappointment welled in his chest, cold and painful. "You machine," he hissed. "Does your heart tick, after all?"

"Alone is what I have." Sherlock's eyes were sad, the eyes of a dead man walking. "Alone protects me."

John had heard enough. He stood up and grabbed his coat, glaring at his charge.

"No, Sherlock, friends protect people," he snapped as a parting shot as he left the room, brushing past a bewildered Violet Hunter on his way out the door.

It wasn't until he saw Mrs. Hudson alive and in blooming health that he realised what Sherlock had done.

* * *

><p>No sooner had John left did Sherlock grab his own coat and scarf and dial Mycroft's number.<p>

"Brother dear!" he sighed as Mycroft picked up. "It's time to go."


	45. The Turn

**Part XLIV**

Richard Brook. Reichenbach. How did he not see it sooner?

John's heart beat furiously, almost erratically as he leapt into the first cab passing by Camden House, barking at the Driver to direct him to the nearest air-dock. He had to catch Sherlock, he had to. Why did Sherlock insist on leaving him behind? He was his Protector Assistant, for cog's sake!

Mycroft met him at the air-docks, umbrella tapping impatiently against the ground. John disembarked hastily, looking about him for any signs of Sherlock. He found none.

"He left on the A.S. _Friesland_," Mycroft said quietly.

"You helped him," John stated. Mycroft nodded. "You _bastard_. You let him go to his death."

"It was an inevitable occurrence – and besides, you know he will survive the fall."

"That was last time. We might not be so lucky this time," John pointed out. "Where's the next ship to Switzerland?"

"The F.S. _Gertie _will stop in Geneva on the way to Venice," Mycroft began, but John's pained expression caused him to switch tacks. "Or I can arrange something with the A.S. _Diogenes_."

"Be quick about it, or I may steal an airplane," John warned as Mycroft gave Anthea his instructions.

"You don't know how to fly," Mycroft pointed out.

"I can learn to, on the fly," John replied. Anthea smirked from behind her phone. Moments later, the A.S. _Diogenes_ was being rolled out to port. Mycroft and Anthea escorted John to the gangplank.

"Good luck, Dr. Watson," Mycroft offered.

"Thank you," John replied, looking at Anthea. She smiled at him.

"Alice," she said.

"What?" he asked.

"That's my real name. Alice. Thought you'd like to know… since I do trust you to protect Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Thanks for the vote of faith." John hugged her, before walking away. As he entered the luxurious airship, he turned to see them still by the gangplank, watching him leave. He waved, even if they couldn't see.

Moments later, he was in the air and on his way.

* * *

><p>The A.S. <em>Friesland<em> flew southeast on almost full-steam, evidently in a hurry to drop off its precious cargo in Meiringen. The Delegates sitting in first class were expected in two days and there were rumours that the A.S. _Gloria Scott _had been captured by Sky Corsairs. Fear permeated the skies to the point where it was visible on the expressions of the crew of the _Friesland_.

The _Friesland_ was decent-sized, with a capacity of over five hundred passengers. Each travel class was fixed to a certain ratio, but Sherlock had quickly noticed that there was a huge amount of steerage passengers for this round. Certainly, the powder burns on the hands of some of them suggested Anarchist activity. Chances were high that some of the passengers onboard were Anarchists, possibly looking for him.

Luckily he'd thought to disguise himself, this time as an Airship Sailor on holiday named Edmund Talbot. The deerstalker cap had been a last-minute grab and he'd regretted the choice ever since; it looked horrendously tacky on him, like some sort of flying disc of death with ear flaps.

Sherlock strode up to the observation deck, passing by the Anarchists without suspicion. They were nearing the Swiss Alps; the snow-capped mountains were looming ahead in the distance, shrouded by clouds. Sherlock took out a spyglass; he could see in the distance the small white streak of the Reichenbach Falls, and next to it, the towers of the Castle of Meiringen.

At that moment, though, an announcement sounded over the horns of the Airship.

"_This is an announcement from the captain of the A.S._ Friesland_. The A.S._ Diogenes _has ordered us to pull aside for a passenger transfer. According to our radar, there may be hostile airships nearby. For those who would like to transfer onto the A.S._ Diogenes_ to continue the journey to Meiringen, please do so now."_

Sherlock ran to the entrance of the airship, just in time to see two metallic pathways extend between the_ Friesland_ and the _Diogenes_. They overlapped, forming a silver bridge between the two zeppelins. The Delegates were quick to transfer, followed by many other bewildered-looking passengers. The Anarchists and Sherlock remained.

But only one person came over from the _Diogenes_. It was John.

Sherlock bit his lip, suppressing the expanding bubble of happiness that threatened to overwhelm him at the sight of John rushing towards him, across the bridge. They met, and Sherlock grabbed his wrist, dragging him into a first-class stateroom. John seemed ready to punch him in the face, and for once Sherlock couldn't blame him.

"You bastard! Thinking of walking off to death without me?" John demanded, seizing the deerstalker and flinging it off the Consulting Detective's head. "I'm so angry that I could…" and with that, he seized Sherlock by the lapels of his coat and kissed him, hungry and furious. Coherent thought flew out of Sherlock's head and for a moment, all that mattered was kissing John.

Outside, the transfer finished and the A.S. _Friesland _resumed its course to the Castle of Meiringen. Sherlock broke away from the kiss after a while and peered out the porthole of the stateroom, watching the brass spires and stone towers of the Castle draw closer and closer along with the roaring waterfall, its depths concealed by mist. Next to him, John's breath caught in his throat.

"I saw this when I was being shipped out to Alexandria," the Protector whispered. "It's… it's déjà-vu."

Suddenly, the airship rocked violently from side to side. Out of the mist of the waterfall – they were nearing the waterfall now – rose the A.S. _Gloria Scott_.

It was flying red Corsair flags.

* * *

><p>Grappling hooks flew onto the railing of the observation decks. The Corsairs began to board. The defenders of the <em>Friesland<em> ranged out, from the Anarchists to the crew. Sherlock and John were among them, Sherlock concealed with the deerstalker once more.

The battle quickly commenced; the defenders tried to shoot down the approaching Corsairs with the defence guns and their own weapons, but several of the enemy did manage to board and take things to short-range combat. John quickly found himself shooting at the oncoming enemy while Sherlock seized the sword by his side – John had brought along his great-great-great-grandfather's sword – and defended him from would-be attackers.

They made a formidable team, with John shooting and Sherlock slashing at their opponents, but even their aid wasn't enough for the defenders. The opposing forces cancelled each other out; by the time the duo noticed a lack of approaching invaders, all of the Corsairs, Anarchists, and Airship Crew were lying dead or gravely injured on the observation deck. John lowered his pistol and reloaded it with shaking hands.

"Oh dear me, Mr. Holmes, dear me," sighed a familiar voice.

By now the ship had drifted well into the clouds hovering over the waterfall. The world was soft grey dampness, and out of that mist strode Jim Moriarty, his hands for once unclean. Behind him lurked the taller, more imposing shadow of Colonel Sebastian Moran.

"Traitor!" an Anarchist called feebly from the casualties. "Double-crossing, no-good defective –" he was swiftly silenced by Moran, who stepped on his windpipe mercilessly. Moriarty's black eyes glimmered with malice.

"I think everything I have to say has already crossed your mind," he purred at Sherlock, who detached himself from John's protective grip to meet his nemesis in the middle of the observation deck. The detective and the criminal, two opposite sides of the coin, began to circle each other like wolves.

"Perhaps my answer has crossed yours." Sherlock was drumming out a rhythm with four fingers; Moriarty's eyes flickered down to see that; he smirked.

"Good, good. You caught that?"

"Obviously. How else could you have broken into a tower, a bank, and a prison at the same time? There was a key on the Key. Four letters, arranged in codons. That's all it takes to program a droid; that's all it takes to make a human."

"The man with the key is king, and honey, _you should see me in a crown_." Moriarty laughed cruelly. "I hate to break it to you, though – I hate to turn your own words on you – but you're _wrong_. There is no key. There never was a key, _doofus_!"

He hurled the words like knives; Sherlock nearly flinched but otherwise betrayed no emotion.

"But really, we could have had a good run. I was so bored, Sherlock, so bored! I was dismantling clockwork animals and tormenting the children who teased me for bed-wetting – Carla was one of them, you know – and I was dreaming and scheming and hoping that someday, I'd find someone who'd never bore me ever again." The Maths Professor laughed again. "And you were very intriguing, very interesting while the game lasted. But in the end, you're just a man. A clone, perhaps, but you're still human and you actually succumbed to the human weakness of _love_."

He spat that word, eyes flickering hatefully to John's face. John felt a curling sense of revulsion. He looked over at Moran, whose face was impassive – but John could see the faintest hints of hurt in his eyes. And for a moment, John pitied Moran.

Moran was Moriarty's de facto Protector Assistant. He was Moriarty's John Watson in everything but love. Moriarty didn't love him, even though Moran would give up his life for him. Moriarty was the one with a clockwork heart.

"You're so boring, Sherlock. You're on the side of the _angels_," sneered Moriarty, ignoring the flashes of hurt, of pain in his protector's eyes. "You're just like Sir Boast-a-lot, the legendary knight who brought down a kingdom because he fell in love. So predictable! I was hoping for something far better than this."

Sherlock remained silent; the two men's pacing had now ended and they were standing at the rail, both facing the mists from the waterfall. John and Moran both readied themselves to pull their charges back.

At that moment, Sherlock began to laugh. John frowned; even Moriarty looked as if Sherlock had finally snapped.

"What is it?" the Maths Professor demanded.

"Pigeonhole M, isn't it?" the Consulting Detective whispered, causing Moriarty to flinch. "Blue envelope, inscribed with your name? You've kept it with your brothers, but you haven't destroyed it yet. Funny, how sometimes we cannot escape our memories."

"They weren't even my memories," Moriarty replied, and lunged at Sherlock. The detective anticipated it, seizing the criminal and pulling the two of them backwards, over the railing of the observation deck and down into the mists below.

A shower of cold, mind-numbing shock descended over John. It took him a while to regain his senses, but by that time Moran was already running away, ostensibly to find a means of getting himself to Moriarty. John rushed away into the hull of the zeppelin; he knew where the emergency escape airplane was –

A shot rang from somewhere to his right; missing him by a hair. Moran had gotten the same idea as he, and was intent on keeping John away from the plane. John avoided the bullets and took as many shortcuts as he could considering the layout of the _Friesland _was eerily similar to that of the average Army Zeppelin, and soon he was in the cargo hold, rushing past crated and crates of what looked suspiciously like dynamite. The escape hatch, with its small plane, lay ahead. He whirled around, shot wildly at the oncoming Moran, and latched himself into the escape hatch.

John raced to the panels and yanked back the lever that would open the door for the escape plane; he hopped in and started fiddling with the various knobs and dials. Soon he located the ignition, cranked the key, and launched the plane straight out of the airship.

A quick round of terrifying trial-and-error later, John was shakily manoeuvring his flimsy little plane into the mist of the waterfall, skirting by the bullets Moran shot at him from the airship. Farther down the waterfall John could make out something lying on a sharp ledge jutting out of the middle of the falls. As he got closer, he realised it was Sherlock. Moriarty was nowhere to be found.

John's heart hammered in his chest; his breath caught short and he held it there as he flew down closer and closer to his charge. He held it until he had swooped down close enough and grabbed the prone form of Sherlock Holmes, unceremoniously dumping him into the passenger seat behind him before clambering back into the pilot's and starting to fly back up, away from the falls. He, quite frankly, had no idea what he was doing; he felt extremely lucky at even being able to fetch his friend at all.

Perhaps he'd somehow found the plane's autopilot feature and programmed it to 'save my bloody brilliant friend from death by waterfall' without realising what he had done. In that case he felt like a bloody genius.

John flew to safety on a ledge just below the Castle of Meiringen, just in time to see the A.S. _Friesland_ jerk away from the _Gloria Scott_ and plummet through the fog, its crazed pilot Moran driving it downwards in the search of Jim Moriarty. But even as he searched, out of the clouds emerged several Army Zeppelins, no doubt doing Mycroft's bidding and apprehending the rogue airships. John clambered out of the plane and grabbed Sherlock, dragging him out and laying him on the grass.

"Sherlock?" he whispered. The man didn't respond. John reached out, searching for a pulse. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock's hair was clumped with blood; his eyes were closed and a peaceful expression graced his features. He looked heartbreakingly beautiful. John felt the sting of tears.

"Sherlock, wake up," he begged as his fingers slipped and slid in their desperate search for a pulse. "Wake _up_!"


	46. The Prestige

**Part XLV **

As a little boy, John had always admired the Magicians who spun wonders out of gears and bolts. He'd always wanted to know how they did it, but obviously any Magician worth their salt would never reveal their secrets. That was fine; he was content to be fooled by them for that moment, to believe that someone truly can pull a clockwork rabbit out of nowhere in a way that defied science or mechanics. He enjoyed watching the silver handkerchief turn into a dove; he enjoyed watching the brightly-coloured scarves appear knotted out of the Magician's pockets.

But if this was a trick, John wasn't enjoying it.

Sherlock's eyes were closed; he wasn't breathing; there was barely a pulse in his neck. John laid him on his back and, kneeling behind his head, began to move his arms above his head and back down to his chest. The coat impeded progress; John rid him of the sodden coat and wrapped him in his own for warmth. He continued to move the detective's arms, up-and-out and back to his chest. In between he checked Sherlock's pulse and pressed firmly on his abdomen, doing all that he could think of to resuscitate his charge.

In the distance, John could see the Army Zeppelins taking the _Gloria Scott into_ custody. They turned to do the same to the _Friesland_, but with an almighty explosion – a billowing of smoke and fire quickly extinguished by the waters of the Reichenbach – the_ Friesland _went up in flames and plummeted down into the foamy abyss below.

John continued to move Sherlock's arms and compress his chest, tears blurring his vision somewhat as the moves became more and more automated, as Sherlock continued not to respond. He could dimly make out people coming out of the castle to him; he could barely perceive them as they swooped down with blankets and a thermos of tea. They prised Sherlock from his grip and took him up to the castle; John could only follow numbly.

The Castle of Meiringen was powered by the roaring waterfall, all bright lights and moving machinery. A giant topiary clock stood in the centre of the courtyard; John was rushed past it by the castle inhabitants into a cavernous main hall filled with a myriad of cogs and gears.

They sent Sherlock to the castle infirmary; John insisted on following and staying by Sherlock's side, grasping his hand, carding through his hair. The Doctors at the castle immersed Sherlock's arms in a saline solution and connected him to an electrocardiograph; within moments the screens whirled into life. Sherlock had a heartbeat; it was faint, but it was there. His breathing had returned, faint but also present. John breathed a sigh of relief.

He heard the telltale tapping of Mycroft's umbrella. The Archagent strode into the infirmary, Anthea following close behind. He stopped at the foot of Sherlock's bed, eying the saline solution, the heartbeats. John held Sherlock's other hand.

"Congratulations," Mycroft said after a moment, voice soft.

"On what, exactly?" John demanded. He wasn't in the mood to deal with Mycroft; he was tired and anxious and angry and he would have fallen asleep had he not been so worried about his charge lying unconscious next to him.

"We found no traces of Moriarty save for a handkerchief embroidered with his initials floating in the River Aar." Mycroft took said kerchief out of a pocket on his belt. "And you probably saw Moran detonate the dynamite on the _Friesland_."

"He wasn't able to find Moriarty either?" John asked, vindictive glee seeping into his voice. Mycroft shook his head.

"It appears that they are dead. Once again, congratulations."

"At what price?" John sighed, looking at Sherlock next to him. "Sherlock said something about Pigeonhole M right before he and Moriarty fell; I think you can look into that."

"Ah, yes, the Moriarty papers. We've froze the accounts of the entire family, temporarily for most but permanently for him and his brothers."

"He had brothers!"

"Jamie and Seamus. The Colonel and the Railway Stationmaster. Both have been taken into custody, despite protests from one Reporter Kitty Reilly."

"Do you think they'll confess?"

"With their brother and leader dead, perhaps. But we never know." Mycroft pulled up a seat and sat down, gesturing for Anthea to take out an envelope. She did so, handing it to John. It was blue, with Moriarty's name written on it in a firm, flowing hand. Inside there was a single notebook, bound in leather.

John closed his eyes and thought of the last time he had seen this. It had been the same exact envelope, containing a very similar notebook – but the name was different.

"Moriarty said they weren't his memories," he muttered, eyes still closed. "They were the memories of a man like Moriarty, a man who had challenged Sherlock and consequently met his downfall."

"Exactly." Mycroft's voice was weary now, resigned. "The Legacy Project was created to ensure that the country would always have someone to turn to when the next criminal mastermind rose to power. Originally the intent was to preserve only Sherlock and his memories, but it soon became apparent that the Holmes-Watson Protectorship was far too strong to ignore – and so you and your memories were also preserved for the project."

"Jonathan Wild." John opened his eyes and looked down at the pristine infirmary sheets. "He was the one we took down last time. Moriarty stole his memories."

"The wheels turn, but the same spoke comes up." Mycroft nodded. "Crime can never truly be eradicated; you and Sherlock only prevent it from harming the rest of society. A criminal is a faulty gear; it must be taken out lest the rest of the clock stops working. But all gears break down at some point; some are just more easily mended than others."

"Won't it be weary, after a while?" John wondered, tucking away a stray strand of hair from Sherlock's closed eyes. In sleep he appeared so vulnerable, so delicate. "We'll never truly rest, not even after we're dead."

"At least you get second chances," Mycroft remarked bitterly. "At least you will live on forever."

He had a point, John considered. Many people would have, ironically enough, died to achieve such a level of immortality. But to live forever in such a way would be tiring – to recover memories again and again, to relive both the best and worst experiences, to rediscover each other as strangers before friends –

At least it was Sherlock. John could think of no one else he would rather spend his life running into again and again and again, like cogs on two adjacent gears.

Another question suddenly surfaced in his mind. "How did you know Moriarty was going to… cause all of this?" he asked, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the roaring falls. "You did say he… became active earlier, but…"

"Do you know the warning signs of a psychopath?" Mycroft asked, crossing his legs and leaning back. "Moriarty displayed all three signs of them in an unusually young age even for people like him. He displayed precociousness in math and manipulation, and by the time he got his Assignment as a Maths Professor he had already made himself a ring of cronies at his public school."

"He was in the upper class, but he got an Assignment."

"His older brother had received the family job, which meant that he and his younger brother had to apply for Assignments, yes. Mike Stamford had been assigned to glean information about him; he quickly came up with a dossier about Moriarty's childhood habits and academic behaviour. The signs were apparent."

"Apparent that he'd become a criminal mastermind? But I'm sure he wasn't the only one –"

"He was young, he was clever, he was insane. Compared to many others we had on our radar at the time, he was the most likely candidate. At this time, he was still in primary school. We decided to resurrect the two of you with the Legacy Project."

John looked down at his hands. "But Carla Powers was killed when we were eleven."

"Yes. Moriarty became active early on. Sherlock's interest in her case was all the indication we needed to start our plan early." Mycroft sighed. "I'd hoped for a couple more decades, but the safety of London and the rest of the empire was paramount."

"How did Moriarty know to take the Key? If the memories didn't belong to him, how did he unlock them?"

Mycroft's eyes were sad; his shoulders seemed drawn together like a man seeking forgiveness. "Ideas are powerful things. Memories can be implanted. Someone else's memories can be suggested, transplanted into a mind. Moriarty found this out when he began to manipulate people. He found out about the Legacy Project, found out about the Key..."

"You told him, didn't you?"

"He was young; he was charming. I too was young and unaware of the implications of my actions. I'd dropped my guard before I even realised it. I'm sorry, John."

John sighed. That was why Mycroft was so invested in the project – not just because he was resurrecting his ancestor, but also because he needed to atone for his slip-up. Mycroft looked at him, eyes searching. John nodded.

"So Moriarty stole the Key and unlocked Jonathan Wild's memories, attempting to figure out how we were going to defeat him?"

"But obviously things didn't happen exactly the way they did last time," Mycroft pointed out.

John nodded. "No, they didn't. And whose memories did Moran take?"

"The memories of a woman named Mary Milliner," Mycroft replied quietly. "A brothel madam who was madly in love with him, to the point of her own destruction. Wild never returned her feelings."

That would explain things. But then again, it was easier to use the memories of people in similar situations. It could be that Moran had loved Moriarty, in a twisted way. John really didn't want to know.

The body at his side stirred slightly. John looked over at the E.C.G., seeing that Sherlock's heartbeat had strengthened into a regular pattern. He smiled down at his charge, carding his fingers through the other's unruly dark curls.

"You should rest, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said after a moment. "He'll be all right."

John nodded, but resolutely stayed by Sherlock's side.

* * *

><p>Sherlock woke up to see John sitting by his side, fast asleep. In the early morning light, he could make out all the shadows on John's face, shadows of worry and doubt that have aged him so much already.<p>

John's hand was loosely holding his left hand; his right arm had, if the texture of his fingertips were of any indication, recently been soaked in a tub of saltwater. No doubt they had been monitoring his heart rate. Sherlock shifted to his left, facing John and squeezing his hand gently.

John woke abruptly – years in the military did that to people – and relaxed when he saw Sherlock staring at him curiously. "You're awake," he remarked.

"Excellent deduction," Sherlock replied drily. "How long have I been unconscious?"

"Two days," John replied.

"And you've barely slept since. I marvel at your dedication, but you really need to sleep."

"Says Mr. I-don't-sleep-on-cases." John smiled, though, and squeezed Sherlock's hand. "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock was already looking around him, at the castle infirmary. "We're in the Castle of Meiringen," he stated.

"Yes, but you haven't answered my question." Sherlock made to get up, but John stopped him. "No, no. Lie back down."

Sherlock acquiesced, because his head had started spinning when he attempted to sit and he wasn't in the mood to stumble out of bed. "Has the treaty been signed?"

"They're doing it tonight." Off in the distance they could hear music, from the Turkish Musician droids that had arrived with their Delegates. "Mycroft's here."

"He found the papers?"

"Pigeonhole M, like you said." John held up the envelope. Sherlock made a snatch at it, but John held it out of his reach. "No, you can do that later. _Rest_."

"I've rested for two days." Sherlock pouted.

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock stared up at the ceiling for a while.

"What happened to him?" he asked suddenly. "Moriarty, I mean."

"They haven't found his body yet, and chances are they probably won't," John replied. "All they recovered was his handkerchief."

Sherlock harrumphed, but said nothing. John absently traced circles into the back of his charge's hand.

"I was scared," he said after a moment. "I was scared that you were dead when I managed to get you off the ledge – and by the way, how did you do it? How did you get there?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It was a blur, John; I'm not entirely sure myself."

"Oh." John nodded. "Right. Well. I thought you were dead for a bit there – you had a weak pulse and you weren't breathing. And I was just thinking… I was just thinking of what happened last time, trying to come to terms with your 'death'. Three years of that."

"I know, and I'm sorry." Sherlock looked away from John's eyes, John's melancholy eyes. "I would say it won't happen again, but in the scheme of things I can't guarantee that." He nodded at the blue envelope. "You know."

John nodded. "It's fine."

"Good."

"I was alone. Last time, I was so alone. I owed you so much, and I still do. And I'm sorry for what I yelled at you back at Violet's house – you are the most human… human being I've ever known."

"I'm a clone."

"So am I." They laughed at that, a quiet little joke secretly exchanged. Sherlock pulled back the covers, gesturing for John to join him in the narrow bed. John looked about to protest, but Sherlock raised his eyebrows. A request and a challenge.

John clambered into the bed with Sherlock, who wrapped his arms around him like the world's most awkward mechanical octopus. The thought of that comparison made John chuckle a little, and he leaned upwards into Sherlock's kiss, feeling more peaceful than he had in a long time.


	47. Homeward Bound

**Part XLVI**

By the time John decided that Sherlock was fit enough to get out of bed, the Consulting Detective was already chafing at his confinement. The peace treaty had been signed and notarised, but already with the lack of funding the Corsairs seemed to be retreating. Regrouping, biding their time. As long as the British Empire held control over India and Pakistan, the Corsairs would continue to terrorise them. This was all just a temporary incapacitation.

That, for now, was fine. The war was over; the Soldiers were coming home.

John saw the first Army Zeppelins flying in from the east on a beautiful October morning, as he stood on a balcony overlooking the Reichenbach falls. Sherlock stood next to him, dressed in coat and scarf with goggles strapped to his head like always. Their fingers were entwined; John waved at the zeppelins as they flew by and he could swear he saw someone wave back. He smiled.

Mycroft and Anthea were to accompany them back to London; they had tickets for the A.S. _Diogenes _scheduled at the end of the week. John was content with the castle; the people were welcoming enough and Sherlock seemed fascinated by the books in the vast library. They spent hours there, John leaning lazily against Sherlock as he pored over the tomes.

It was a lazy afternoon indeed when Anthea – Alice Charpentier – walked into the library with a smile and told them the news.

"Mycroft's been having some discussions with the Baskerville Scientists and the Politicians in Westminster, and they've come to a decision about the Legacy Project."

Sherlock looked up from his book, arching an eyebrow. Anthea took a seat in the chair across from them, her eyes sparkling warmly.

"They're closing it."

John bolted upright. "Closing it?" he repeated.

"Yes. Mycroft has presented your objections to them and they all agreed it would be for the best. The Legacy Project was one of the most controversial government projects, one of the top targets of the Anarchists. With it closed and the information put in cold storage, you two will be allowed to live your lives normally and die without having to worry about future resurrections. Also, the Anarchists would be deprived of another target."

"Shutting it down won't suddenly kill us or anything?" John asked, tilting his head to the side. "And we can keep our Assignments, right?"

"Sherlock can still be Consulting Detective and catch criminals to his heart's content; we just won't be compelling him to destabilise criminal organisations." Anthea paused. "Although he'd probably destabilise them for the kicks, won't he?"

Sherlock laughed shortly. "If I get bored, perhaps. But then I'd be even more bored after I defeat them."

Anthea nodded. "There's another thing. We're also offering to clear your memories with the closing of the project. You two can live totally ordinary lives – can even part ways, if you'd like."

She was offering them an escape hatch. She was giving John his life back – or at least, the ordinary life that he would have had before he met Sherlock. But it was obvious what he would choose. Ordinary or extraordinary – a lonely life, or one with Sherlock. There was no contest.

"No, that won't be necessary." John smiled at Sherlock, noting how the other was diligently hiding his face behind his book. "I'm fine with living with him and our adventures for the rest of this life."

"Good." Anthea smiled. "And before I forget…" She looked up, over to the entrance of the library where an older couple stood. "Meet my parents, John. Mum, dad, this is Dr. John Watson, the man who saved Arthur."

Mr. and Mrs. Charpentier shuffled over, both of them looking sheepish.

"I took the liberty of telling them the story," Anthea continued softly, her eyes never leaving John's. "About how you saved my brother after he was wounded, how you carried him into sickbay. If it hadn't been for you, he would have died forgotten or possibly captured by the Corsairs. It does put things into perspective in comparison to the libel that Reporter Reilly is printing in London."

"We'd like to apologise," Mrs. Charpentier added, as Mr. Charpentier offered John his hand. John shook it, smiling. "We shouldn't have –"

"It's easy to believe the media," John said hastily. "That's why so many of the people who work there are called Propagandists. I don't blame you."

"Arthur was very dear to us," Mrs. Charpentier sighed, leaning down to hug him. "We thank you for being his friend."

It was all John needed to hear. He smiled and smiled and smiled until his face hurt, and after the three Charpentiers left Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and kissed him as if he'd never kissed anything so beautiful, so loving in his life – and he probably hadn't, but John wasn't going to dwell on that lest the Protector urges threatened to overwhelm him – and all John could do in return was kiss back and simply try to remember how to breathe.

* * *

><p>They returned to London in a blaze of red and gold, from the falling leaves in the parks and the burnished sunlight on the brasses and bronzes of city buildings. The swift Deassignment of Kitty Reilly and the two remaining Moriarty brothers had shocked the nation; every time John left the flat he could hear people discussing it, wondering which story was true.<p>

"Strange case, this one," Lestrade said on a morning in late October, as they examined the corpse of an asphyxiated gallery attendant. "What do you think it means?"

Sherlock looked up from his phone, where he had been receiving textograms from the Baker Street Irregulars. The magnifying goggles made his Glasz eyes look enormous. "It means that that lost Paget painting is a fake."

And later, when John found himself chasing after Sherlock in a hunt for an unnaturally tall assassin through the back alleys of East End London, he accepted for once and for all that he liked it. He liked the running, the heart-pounding chases and fights. He liked seeing the spark of inspiration enter Sherlock's eyes as he solved a case. He liked being able to protect him.

Even if their memories had been cleared, John felt that they would be drawn together and to crime all the same. It wouldn't matter; the gears may turn but they were complementary cogs. They'd always click together.

And as it turned out, the lost Paget painting was a fake because the figure falling from the ledge was Moriarty, not Jonathan Wild like it should have been for the time. John had pointed it out before Sherlock realised it; Sherlock had then stared at him and called him brilliant.

So as they say, life went on. The machinery of life ran unceasingly; the gears of society continued to twirl. Fall blurred into winter, winter blurred into spring, and soon Mary Morstan was on John's doorstep with the biggest grin on her face. John had barely answered the door before she barrelled through and knocked the wind out of him with a bear hug.

"You will not believe what just happened to me! You won't!" she squealed, waving at Sherlock as he descended the stairs to see the cause of the commotion. He had just finished composing a violin piece; he still had the bow in his hand.

"No, but I can deduce it by the ring on your finger," he replied, an amused lilt to his voice. Mary nodded enthusiastically, allowing John to prise her off him before going over to hug Sherlock as well. The Consulting Detective looked slightly startled, but at least he didn't pull away.

"When's the wedding, then?" John asked as Mrs. Hudson arrived on the landing as well, obviously having heard Mary's excited squealing from her flat.

"Wedding?" their Landlady asked. "Who's getting married? Oh, is it you, Miss Morstan? Aww, that's lovely." Her eyes crinkled into a smile; she stepped forward and hugged Mary warmly. "Is it to that nice Delegate who dropped by all those months ago with John? He'd been a bit sick then, the poor dear. But he wouldn't stop talking about you."

"When did that happen?" John asked, slightly bewildered.

"After you'd gone to sleep that night he paid me a visit. I gave him some cheese buns. He's a charming boy, Percy."

Mary blushed happily, smiling so wide John wondered why her face hadn't split in two. "It's going to be six weeks from now," she gushed, "since his leave's going to end in June and he wants me to go back to Tokyo with him."

"Didn't he finish the alliance, though? That was signed in January," John pointed out.

"Yes, but he's still at the post. Although I think Permanent Undersecretary Abbott is going to send him to Peking next. I'm really excited! I'll be seeing their floating cities and drinking their tea and…" she would have twirled, had the landing not been so narrow that she would have collided with all of them in the process. "You're all invited to the wedding! And I think Percy's going to make you his best man." She directed the last bit at John, who shrugged.

* * *

><p>Six weeks later, John presided as best man at Mary and Percy's wedding, which was a highly informal affair inside a Floating Pavilion just off the coast of Brighton. The bride wore white muslin; the cake was composed almost entirely of strawberries and crème. Mycroft had nearly seven helpings.<p>

But none of that compared to Sherlock taking John back to Holmes Manor after the reception. Mrs. Holmes welcomed them with tears in her eyes; John hugged her and remembered their awkward Christmas dinner only six months ago. She seemed to have forgiven him for that.

Sherlock quickly managed to detangle him from his mother and dragged him up to the tower, to his room. Up the spiral staircase they went, all the way until they were out on the balcony, sea breeze in their hair and sunset before their eyes. John had never felt more alive.

"You're not going to let me change?" he asked as Sherlock kissed him against the balcony railing, feeling sweaty from running around in the stiff, starchy suit. Sherlock, who had gotten away with wearing his usual clothes to the wedding, laughed against his lips, low and rumbly and exactly the way John liked it.

"No, I don't think so."

"Why not?"

Sherlock pulled back, eyes suddenly nervous. John raised an eyebrow.

"Because I'm filing all of this away in my mind palace," the Consulting Detective replied softly. "It's going to be a reference."

"For what? Don't tell me that some international drug ring is confusing the two of us again."

Sherlock laughed. "No, nothing like that." He nuzzled John's cheek gently, fondly. "Far from that. See, I'm memorising this image of you so I have a reference for what you're going to look like at our wedding."

That threw John for a curve, to say the least. "I thought you didn't do weddings," he said. Sherlock had said those very words that morning as John suited up.

"No, I really don't. But I'd be willing to… er… suppress my distaste for them as long as we can cement our Protectorship."

John laughed. "You daft git. You don't need a marriage to cement a Protectorship."

"Well, there are other benefits to marriage –"

"Obviously –"

"And I thought you wouldn't object to making our relationship more permanent anyway, since we've pretty much loved each other for at least a century, give or take a couple of decades."

"Did you think I was rejecting you?" John raised both eyebrows, before leaning up and kissing Sherlock firmly on the mouth. "You're brilliant, but sometimes you can be so clueless. Yes, I will marry you. _Oh cogs yes_, I will."

That was all they needed to say, all they needed to hear. It had been a long way coming, a long and arduous journey through smoke filled cities and fog – but at last the skies were clearing, and John Watson had finally come home.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong> Just the epilogue to come, and we'll be done! Man, this has been a long and exciting journey and I still feel like I'm at the tip of the iceberg of this world.


	48. Daybreak After the Storm

**Epilogue**

**FIRE AT DURHAM UNIVERSITY DESTROYS MATHEMATICAL SCIENCES WING**

The Mathematical Sciences wing at Durham University was destroyed last night in a sudden fire. Arson is suspected, but authorities have arrested no suspects so far.

Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes was called up north to investigate, but he declines to comment on the nature of the fire. His Protector Assistant, John Watson, believes it had been perpetrated to hide something.

"We're not sure what it was – Sherlock'll figure it out in the end, though – but it probably was arson and it probably was caused by someone who doesn't want us to know what was hidden in that wing."

Of course, Watson must be referring to the secrets of the late Maths Professor James Moriarty, whose identity has been firmly confirmed as such by the state in a series of press releases last month. The Moriarty papers, a notebook detailing a shocking plethora of information on the criminal underworld of our Empire, are in state custody and not available for public perusal. Apparently Moriarty had been a criminal mastermind in the likeness of Thief-Taker Jonathan Wild, the arch-nemesis of the ancestor of our current Consulting Detective.

"There were things in there that we'll never know about him, I think," says Watson. "It's not that the mystery will be unsolved; it's just that we're not going to get a complete picture."

It could be that the fire was started by the university itself, in order to destroy all traces of Moriarty from its campus. It could be that the fire was started by one of Moriarty's followers. Either way, Holmes and Watson seem to believe that the fire has achieved its purpose, and that the last traces of James Moriarty are now firmly beyond the grasp of law.

The Mathematical Sciences wing will be rebuilt before the Michaelmas term begins.

* * *

><p>"You think it was the Anarchists?" John asked as Sherlock examined the things that the Police M.A.T.I.N.s had managed to unearth from the rubble of the fire. Amid several badly-charred copies of Moriarty's books, they had discovered a painting by Jean-Baptiste Greuze. The painting had fortunately escaped the worst of the damage; after a little restoration work it would be donated to an art museum.<p>

"Possibly," Sherlock replied. "We've no proof."

"True." John knelt down next to Sherlock as the man continued to adjust his magnifying goggles as he inspected the charred bits of a clockwork droid. "Isn't that a voice-box?" he asked.

Sherlock pressed a button on the box. Static rang out for a couple of seconds, but soon a woman's voice echoed through the room. She had a Czech accent, a very familiar Czech accent.

"That's the voice of Miss Wenceslas," Sherlock muttered, listening to the woman's voice.

_Do you remember the Thief-Taker? You were the Thief-Taker. The government attempted to suppress your memories, but here I am to unlock them for you. Remember this man? His name is Sherlock Holmes. Obviously you know him already – but now you must be on your guard. Sherlock Holmes is coming after you. You are the Thief-Taker._

"Suggestibility. He purposefully made her implant the memories into his head."

"Oh." John crossed his arms, leant against the wall as Sherlock continued to listen. After a moment, he checked his watch. "Wait a moment, it's already half thirteen."

"What?" Sherlock looked up, bewildered.

"It's half thirteen. We're going to be late to our own wedding if you keep on examining that voice-box."

"Cogs." Sherlock clapped a hand to his forehead. "We have the witnesses, right?"

John couldn't help it; he began to laugh. "Are we solving a murder or getting married, Sherlock?"

"Good question." Sherlock got up, smiling, and extended a hand to his Protector. "We may have to run to Whitehall with traffic like it is today." They linked hands and dashed out of the room, out of Scotland Yard just as a double-decker airbus came hovering through. Sherlock took one look at it and started rethinking their travel plans.

"Oh no," groaned John.

"Come on!" Sherlock dragged the two of them to the airbus and boarded, heading straight for the pilot. A few bribes and threats later, the airbus was dramatically changing its course, heading straight for the Notary Office in Whitehall. Satisfied, Sherlock turfed a fourteen-year old out of his indolent sprawl across three seats and plopped down. John sat next to him, shaking his head in amusement.

"I can't believe you just hijacked an airbus," he muttered.

Sherlock merely turned up his collar smugly.

* * *

><p>In the end they arrived at their wedding five minutes late. Mycroft looked extremely displeased yet slightly resigned. Anthea, on the other hand, smirked at them from behind her mobile.<p>

"I'm a busy man, you know," the Officiator sighed as the two of them made their way to his desk in the Notary Office. "I've got other couples to marry. You're holding up the proceedings."

"Clockwork weddings. How romantic," Sherlock deadpanned. "You do know we hijacked an airbus to get here? We were in the middle of a case."

"Sherlock, now isn't the time," John sighed. "Shall we?"

"Yes, please." The Officiator examined the room. Aside from Mycroft and Anthea, the other witnesses for this extremely private ceremony were Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade sat next to Mycroft; Mrs. Hudson was testing out a new pair of knitting gauntlets, admiring the clockwork movements that worked the needles.

The Officiator cleared his throat. "Today we herald the binding of two gears – two souls – in the clockwork apparatus of our society. With these vows that they say today, these two faithful souls will dedicate the rest of their lives to each other in sickness and in health, in happiness and in sorrow. Though the winds of time and change may rust their gears and shatter their bolts, may the love that they share, the love that we cement today, last through all obstacles, even death."

Sherlock and John exchanged amused glances at that.

"Will you, Sherlock Holmes, take John Hamish Watson to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I will," Sherlock replied.

"And will you, John Hamish Watson, take Sherlock Holmes to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I will," John stated, slipping his hand into Sherlock's and squeezing lightly. Sherlock reached into his inside breast pocket and pulled out a list. He looked at John, smirking, and began to intone his vows.

"My dearest John, I will love you eternally and beyond. I ask you to share this world with me, for good and ill, and to commit our lives together for all the days to come. I will also not perform any experiments on you without your consent –" there he murmured something that sounded like 'can't make any promises' under his breath, "– and I will be faithful to you as long as I live."

John laughed quietly at that; Sherlock rolled his eyes good-naturedly. The Officiator arched both eyebrows, but said nothing.

It was now John's turn to say his vows; he suddenly felt a squirming nervousness in the pit of his stomach. Sherlock's eyes, however, reassured him as he smiled shakily and said, "My dearest Sherlock, I will love you eternally and beyond. I ask you to share this world with me, for good and ill, and to commit our lives together for all the days to come. I will be your Protector and your conductor of light, and I will be faithful to you as long as I live."

"Please present the rings." At that, John reached down to his utility belt and pulled out a black box containing two rings, engraved with their initials and a small clockwork design. They took the rings and slipped them onto each others' fingers, entwining them when they were done.

"I give you this ring with a clockwork design, to show that forever your heart will be mine. Though we may not be droids, this much is true – the gears of my heart will turn only for you." They said this in unison – it was the traditional ring-exchange saying. As the golden rings caught the light of the room, the gears engraved on them seemed to turn in affirmation.

"In the eyes of this society and Empire, I now pronounce you married. You may seal this commitment with a kiss."

As they did so, the Officiator signed the license and passed it around for the witnesses to sign as well. Sherlock and John were the last to sign; once that was done; the two newlyweds were quickly shepherded out of the room by Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson to a nearby cab. Everyone moved extremely fast in the hopes of missing the press.

Sometimes it was hard for a relatively private detective to avoid having a public image. The wedding of said detective to his Protector Assistant would be one of those times. Luckily, Sherlock had managed to grab a hat to conceal his face as he left.

Unluckily, it was the deerstalker.

* * *

><p>It was later that night, as the two lay spent and entwined in their bed at Baker Street, when John's thoughts turned forward to their weekend at Holmes Manor – and beyond.<p>

"Are you going to keep bees, Sherlock?" he asked, tracing the outline of his newly-wedded husband's lips in the dark. They had agreed to avoid hyphens or taking each others' names – John's name stayed as Watson and Sherlock's as Holmes. They had also agreed not to mention their marriage to Mary until she returned from Peking on leave; she would probably refuse to talk to them for weeks if she found out that they got hitched without her as a witness.

"They are intriguing," Sherlock replied noncommittally, pressing a gentle kiss to John's cheek. "Did you know they communicate through dance? The exact patterns of their dance will tell the rest of the hive where the food is – what angle to fly in and how far it is from the hive."

John laughed. "I'd hope that you could wait until retirement to start tinkering with bees, but I did discover some mechanical hives in my old room the other day."

"'Twas an experiment," Sherlock grunted.

"Obviously." John kissed a line down Sherlock's jaw. "Thinking of continuing the _Practical Handbook of Bee Culture_?"

"Obviously," replied Sherlock, sighing contentedly into John's ear. "Go to sleep, John."

"I love you too, Sherlock."

But John didn't go to sleep, not even after Sherlock did and began to snore softly next to him. John continued to look out the window of Sherlock's room, at the bright moon and the stars, mostly obscured by the smog of London.

He stayed up long enough to see the lightening of the skies, to see the grey daybreak curl into rosy dawn. London awoke with whistles and engines, with a roar and a tinkle as the Factories spun into life and life went on.

It was early morning.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong> Finally! Done! I would like to thank everyone who has read, favourited, alerted, and/or reviewed this story. It's been fun sharing this world with you. I'm hoping to be able to play with it more in one-shots or even original fiction.

I would like to acknowledge practically everyone in the Holmesian fandom whose works I've referred to - obviously Arthur Conan Doyle for being the one who started it all, and Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, Steve Thompson, and the ridiculously talented Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman for bringing the modern retelling to life. Less obviously I would like to acknowledge Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce for the persistent name-stealing, Eve Titus and Disney for the Great Mouse Detective references, and Guy Ritchie for the shameless stealing of the 'Sherlock in drag on a train' arc.

I would also like to acknowledge Roald Dahl for giving me the Landlady storyline used in the Copper Beeches arc, Limecake for giving me the S.T.R.B.C.K acronym, my friends at school and on Tumblr for their constant support and help (especially April and Leah; you two are awesome), and everyone involved in the steampunk... fandom? for inspiration.

Thank you once again for reading.


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